Shadow and Hells
by Maeve's Child
Summary: An evil aasimar cleric and her path through the OC and beyond, Non-MOTB. Rated M for violence, language, smut and Bishop. Reader beware, this isn't your momma's fanfic! Complete! Finally!
1. Lady of Misfortune

_If you are offended easily, you might not want to continue. This was inspired by my deciding to take a crack at playing the OC with an evil character. I'd tried before, but never managed to feel it. But I slipped into this character pretty easily. It did disturb me a bit, and this is what came of that feeling. _

_This will skip a lot of the regular OC scenes and focus mostly on what happens in-between. If you are having trouble following where we are, just let me know and I'll fill in some blanks. However, I have no interest in just rehashing the game. I'm figuring if you are reading this, you know what happens already. There's a line or two here and there directly from the game, but mostly it's just my ranting and raving._

_Oh, and I am sorry that my PC, Maeve of Sune, has the obligatory red hair. But since I decided to make her like my evil, shadowy twin, she needed to look like me in order to get myself really into the role. And since I really do have red curly hair, I figured it was only fair that she did too._

_Rated M for violence, bad language and sexual situations. And I'm not kidding, so reader beware. The OC and NPCs, as always, belong to Obsidian._

_This begins right before the Trial by Combat._

#

SHADOW AND HELLS

Chapter 1: Lady of Misfortune

Maeve stepped back and looked at herself in the mirror. Shaking her head, her long orange-gold curls tumbled over the shoulders of her new armor. The armor _was_ beautiful and much more appropriate than the mismatched plate she'd worn so far. It was copper colored and highly polished. Symbols were etched in fine swirling lines on the breastplate. She could feel the divine and arcane magic infusing the metal like a tingle against her skin.

Maeve smiled. Finally, her reflection seemed to suit her. Short and sturdy, with muscular limbs and a wild froth of orange hair, she'd never been comfortable in her own skin. Especially as an aasimar, she was expected to be a certain way and look a certain way. And it was something she'd never really been able to manage. But in armor, ready for battle with the fire of fury blazing in her blue-grey eyes . . . well that was a look she could pull off.

Although she was born in West Harbor, she'd spent plenty of time here at the temple of Sune. Maeve didn't need to know who her father was to know _what_ he was. A half-celestial, a child of a deva of Sune. On the pale skin of Maeve's back, a golden pattern birthmark wove itself into the face of Sune, her long hair tapering into a stream of broken freckles. Like many aasimar, Maeve was marked by her blood with that birthmark and the silvery glow of her eyes, allowing her to see as well in the darkness as she did in the light.

Daeghun had sent her here to the temple when she was twelve, unable to deal with her raging hormones and wild outbursts. The sisters taught her much about Sune and about desire. They groomed her to be a temple cleric, a sacred whore to the goddess of love. They taught her the sweet words of desire and skills a courtesan would have killed to know. But when she was sixteen and given her first charge, to fulfill the desire of a patron, she'd not lived up to their expectations. Maeve had learned the tricks of physical love from the other clerics and clerics to be, beautiful men and women who'd sworn their lives to passion. She'd never had trouble conjuring her own desire with them. But her first was an old man by her standards, a grizzled soldier who might have been thirty-five, and he received a scratched face and a knee to the groin instead of the sexual healing he'd come for.

So the temple sent her back to West Harbor where Daeghun continued to successfully ignore her. Maeve set to practicing the skills they taught her at the temple with every able and passably attractive male in the village. And where she continued to hone her divine spells from not only the healing skills she'd learned before, but spells of fire and destruction to rival an mage evoker.

The temple high priestess appeared in the reflection over Maeve's shoulder startling her from her thoughts. The older woman was much taller than Maeve was, and could have looked imposing with her dark hair and pale eyes. But her face was sweet with years of service to Sune. Maeve had grown to seriously dislike that peaceful look.

"It looks lovely," the priestess said. "But I hate to think that it will not be enough."

"Do you have me in the grave already, Kionen?" Maeve spat, still staring at her reflection in the mirror. "Do you really think I am so weak?"

"Do not mistake my words," Kionen said. "But you are not a fighter or a paladin, but a cleric. A priestess who should be doing her duty at the temples, not taking lives."

"What would you have me do?" Maeve asked acridly. "Lay down and spread my legs when Lorne comes to kill me? Not that I haven't done it for him before. He liked me to choke him you know. All sweetness and light. And what good has it done me? He's still going to kill me if I let him."

"There are many ways to yield," Kionen said, wrapping one of Maeve's curls around her slender finger.

"I am _tired_ of yielding. I know what I want and I finally going to get it. What's the point of inspiring passion when I don't feel any myself?" Maeve asked, spinning around and tearing her hair from Kionen's fingers.

"It is sometimes hard to know Sune's desire," Kionen said.

"Ha!" Maeve snorted. "You propose to tell me about Sune's desire? The blood of her deva runs in my veins, not yours."

"I can only tell you what I know to be true," Kionen replied serenely.

"Well, let me tell you something true," Maeve whispered menacingly. "Sune can go to the hells for all I care."

With that, she grabbed her flail and shield and stalked out of the temple. Kionen watched her go, her peaceful look replaced by shock and naked fear.

#

Maeve's flail was coated in gore and blood. Some of the blood, mostly what was soaked into the leather grip, was hers. But the bits of flesh on the wicked spikes, well, that was all Lorne's. He didn't have the good sense to beg for mercy, so she hadn't offered him any. Maeve stared at the drying filth on her hands. She didn't feel anything like she had expected. She had killed before, plenty of times, but mostly it had been just faceless obstacles in her path. Not someone she knew so _intimately _as she knew Lorne. It wasn't as if there had been any love between them. Certainly wasn't love. But nonetheless, she knew him.

Yet Maeve felt nothing at all.

A part of her thought it might be a good idea to wash the blood from her face and hands before walking back into the Sunken Flagon. But she decided she didn't really care about that either. She opened the door, walked in and the place went silent. She glanced around the room, surprised to see everyone waiting for her. Khelgar and Neeshka standing at the bar, Qara warming herself by the fire. Elanee and Sand sitting at a table with Grobnar and Shandra. And the paladin, standing stoic in the corner like a statue. Casavir's blue eyes were blazing, but she wasn't sure what sort of expression he was going for. Anger? Righteous disapproval? Repressed desire? Hard to tell with someone that much like a stone. Maeve stared at him pointedly. She winked and he scowled, turning away. Maeve grinned. There was nothing she found more entertaining than breaking down Casavir's hard veneer and getting a glimpse of the angry and arrogant man inside.

She dropped her flail and shield on the table, flakes of dried blood peppering the worn wood. With a snort, stomped into the side hall toward her room. Lack of emotions aside, she was feeling filthy and desperate to get out of her armor. The hall was shadowed and her mind was elsewhere, so she never noticed Bishop standing just outside the door to her room.

He reached out and touched her cheek before she saw him. Startled, she jump back and raised her arms.

"Ooo," Bishop whispered. "Jumpy."

"Go to the hells Bishop," Maeve spat. He grinned. "What do you want?"

"Plenty," he said. "But honestly? I just wanted to congratulate you on the fine mess you made of Lorne's face."

"Most of it is still stuck to my flail," she muttered.

"So," Bishop continued. "How's that make you feel?" He tilted his head down and looked at her, still grinning.

"Tired," she replied. "And that's it. Well, except for a burning desire to get out of this armor. So unless you want to help undress me, would you kindly get the hells out of my doorway?"

"Is that an offer?" Bishop asked.

"Fuck you," Maeve spat, pushing him out of the way and throwing the door to her room open. Bishop spun around and pinned her against the door frame. Her head struck the wood hard and she saw stars.

"That sounds like an even better offer," he said. He leaned in like she was going to kiss her, but didn't. "Unless it's all just a tease from you?" His lips brushed her cheek as he spoke.

Maeve tried to glare at him, but failed. She was damn well feeling something now.

"I see you took my advice," Bishop said, leaning back just enough to meet her eyes. "Since you were casting divine spells out there with ol' Lorne, despite, what did you call it, being forsaken by Sune?"

"Goddess of love my ass," Maeve muttered. "Besides, I've always figured my grandfather must have been a fallen deva, with black wings, to have been running about making bastards."

"Its likely," Bishop replied. "So who took you up on your offer to be their new priestess?"

"Beshaba," Maeve whispered. "I asked, and she answered."

"Our Lady of Misfortune," Bishop chuckled. "How appropriate."

"I thought so."

"Although I've never understood this whole worship nonesence, at least you're listening to me. It's a start," Bishop snarled, leaning back in towards her. This time, it seemed clear he was going to try to kiss her. But she stopped him by biting his lower lip instead.

"Bitch," he said, pushing himself away from her.

"That's why you love me," Maeve said as she slammed the door in his face.

#

_Skip ahead . . . . to Nasher's orders to go and wrench Crossroad Keep from Black Garius and his minions . . . . _

#

"So a handful of Many-Starred Cloak mages and _us_, are going to take back an entire keep from a horde of Luskan arcane brothers? Oh, that's a great idea," Bishop muttered, although he still followed.

"We will do what needs to be done," Casavir retorted. Maeve glared over her shoulder at the two men. Bishop rolled his eyes, but shut up.

She turned back to the road. It was afternoon, and only a few more hours to Crossroad Keep. Bishop was right, it was suicidal to send them there, but she figured Nasher was hoping she'd be squashed. He might have been okay with her becoming a squire to spit in Luskan's face, but once that madness was over with, she expected him to find a way to remove her from the nobility. A former cleric of Sune, now a follower of Beshaba, with a sharp tongue was not exactly the sort of person _Lord _Nasher wanted to associated with. Not to mention she was just a swamp farmer's unwanted foster burden.

Maeve sighed. She didn't want to play martyr for this. Bishop sidled up next to her, sliding his arm around her waist.

"What do you want?" she asked aggressively, but her words were in opposition to her body. She didn't pull away, but settled against him, letting their hips brush together with each step.

"Hm," Bishop said, learning in close. "What do you have?"

"Nothing you'd want," she retorted. "Unless you'd like a flail spike in your eye."

"Ha, I'd bet you have something far more pleasant for me, if I could just get you our of that tin can you insist on wearing," Bishop snorted.

"Oh would I?"

"I'll just have to be patient. Well, if you manage to survive this ridiculous _order_," he laughed. He let go of her waist and dropped back again, letting her walk alone. Maeve could feel Casavir's eyes glaring into the back of her head, and Bishop's mocking face. She didn't need to turn around to know what was going on back there. Trying to ignore it, she stalked forward, looking straight ahead. Not watching where she was going was not the best plan. Her boot caught on a rut in the road and she stumbled forward.

"Hells," she muttered, stumbling to her knees. She might be strong, and newly refreshed in divine spells, but her dexterity was bad enough even without the armor. Predictably, Casavir rushed forward to help her. He offered her his hand and she took it, letting him pull her to her feet. She stood and he was standing entirely too close. He was quite a bit taller than she was and looked pretty impressive in his silver armor. _If only he could get the stick out of his ass, he might be fun,_ Maeve thought.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his velvety voice filled with honest concern.

"I'm fine. Just a bit of bruised pride," Maeve said, starting to walk again, this time walking carefully where she put her feet. "I've always been clumsy. I just figured I'd out grow it. Looks like that isn't going to happen."

"I would be happy to help train you to move and fight in heavy armor," Casavir offered. "I have some experience with that."

"Thanks for the offer. If I manage to not get us killed, I may take you up on that."

"We will prevail," Casavir said serenely.

"I'm glad you think so," Maeve sighed.

"The righteous cause will always win in the end," Casavir continued.

"Well then," Maeve snorted. "We're screwed. I am not exactly a paragon of virtue, in case you hadn't noticed."

"You have made some . . . bad decisions. Yes, but I think you have more goodness in you than you know."

Maeve stopped short and spun around to face him. Her eyes were blazing.

"Are you blind?" she screamed at him. "I am no one's protector, and I only do what's in my own best interests. I have no goodness in me, unless you're offering to put your _goodness_ in me."

Casavir blanched. Maeve just stared at him, her pale skin flushed with anger.

"Looks like the paladin might get lucky," Bishop interjected. "If he could figure out what to do with her."

Ignoring him, Casavir said, "Do not mock me."

"I'm not," Maeve spat. "Don't mistake me, I'm glad you're here. You're a good fighter, and I don't have to worry you might stab me when I'm not looking. And despite your protestation about how Bishop looks at me, at least he's honest about it. You aren't the first paladin to want a taste of evil."

"I do not," Casavir said softly. "Want a _taste_ of evil. I want to help you see what goodness you have."

Maeve sighed, defeated. "I know," she muttered. "And look, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but don't waste any prayers on me. It's like praying that the sun won't go down at night. I'm not worth the effort."

"I don't think so," he said softly. "I think you've just been left alone to your own thoughts too often in your life. Even the best of hearts can be damaged by that. I know better than you might think."

"Oh Casavir, what the hells am I going to do with you?" Maeve asked, sighing. Standing on her tip toes, she kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth. She was shocked when he didn't blush but instead closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep shuttering breath. And so did Bishop standing behind them. It took everything she had not to look back at him.

"Thank you," Casavir whispered as they started to walk again.

"Don't thank me," she replied. "You're going to regret it more than I will someday."

#

_. . . . amazingly, they survive the attack on Crossroad Keep and as a reward, Maeve is given Crossroad Keep as her own . . . . _

#

"So, what's the great Captain of Crossroad Keep want with her humble tracker?" Bishop asked, sarcasm dripping from every word.

"Pulling your weight with a little less backtalk would be a start," Maeve snarled.

"I like it when you're angry," Bishop replied. He looked away for a moment, staring out toward the setting sun. He'd been fletching new arrows, sitting on the crumbling ruin of the wall of the inner courtyard. Maeve sat down on the stones next to him, pulling her legs up underneath her. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and she wore a pale grey robe. It hitched up as she sat, showing a promising length of thigh.

"I like it when I'm angry too," she said. Bishop set the half finished arrow down and turned to look at her.

"So Nasher gifted you with this pile of rubble," he said. "Nice insult."

"He's a prick,' Maeve said. "But the Keep's got potential."

"Yeah, whatever," Bishop muttered.

They sat in silence for a while in the swiftly approaching twilight. Maeve leaned back, bracing herself with her arms and sighed.

"That offer to camp," she said finally, "Was that an offer or just another snide comment?"

"If it was an offer, what would you say?" Bishop replied, answering her question with a question.

"I'd say yes," Maeve said.

Bishop took a deep breath, tried and failed to not look surprised.

"I thought you hated me," he said.

"Maybe a little," she said. "But you're the only one around here who's honest with me. And doesn't look at me like at any moment, my celestial blood might take over and I'll sprout wings and start reciting poetry."

Bishop snorted. "The paladin? Again?"

"I don't get him," she continued. "I think I could spit in his face and piss in his helmet and he'd still be trying to redeem me. At least, if he was just trying to fuck me, I'd know how to deal with it. But he told me he wanted to 'protect me' which I think is paladin for love. All his damned mooning is going to make me sick."

"Well. Pissing in his helmet eh? Putting a lot of thought into this?" Bishop snickered.

"More than I'd like to."

"If it makes you feel any better, I think you'd look stupid with a halo," Bishop said.

Maeve laughed bitterly. "I agree."

"Maybe," Bishop said, "You should just tell Casavir to take a leap."

"I would if I thought it would do any good. And as much as I hate to admit it, I do feel a little sorry for him."

"Do you now?" Bishop sneered. "A good deal of rolling has started with less."

"You know, I wish you just stop talking and kiss me," she said.

"What makes you think I want to do that?" Bishop asked. With a snarl, she leapt forward and grabbed the back of Bishop's head, pulling tightly on his short hair. Her hair floated around her face and her eyes glimmered silvery with anger in the half light.

"I do love it when you're angry," he said.

"Prove it."

"Then let go of my hair."

"You like that too," she said, her other hand sliding up his thigh to settle on his crotch. "Obviously."

"You seem to know just what I like," he said, his voice catching in his throat as she moved one hand a bit, and loosened her grip on his hair with the other. Her sharp fingernails dug into the sensitive flesh on the back of his neck.

"Just shut up," she said, finally moving in close enough to kiss him.

The kiss was like dropping an ember into a haystack. Bishop grabbed her fiercely and flung her down on the ground, his whole weight falling on top of her. He kissed her feverishly and she tasted blood in her mouth. He ground himself against her, the rough grey robes chaffing against her skin. His hand darted under the hem, pulling the robe roughly up around her waist. Instinctively, Maeve spread her legs, letting him settle in-between, a few layers of thin fabric the only thing between them.

As fiercely as he grabbed her, he pushed her away and stood up, leaving her lying on the ground.

"This is no good ladyship," he said, grabbing his arrows and fletching tools from the wall. "This just isn't my style."

"What isn't?" she said, propping herself up on her elbow, not bothering to cover herself.

"I prefer honest whores to playing a whore myself." he said. "Because you aren't paying me for this."

"Then what _am_ I paying you for? To be an asshole?"

"Everyone's got a skill," he said, stalking away silently.

"Shadow and hells," Maeve cursed under her breath, standing up and letting her robes slide down over her legs again. She brushed herself off and stomped towards the Phoenix Tail Inn, since a drink seemed likely to be the only stiff thing she'd be getting tonight. Caught up in her own thoughts, she ran into Casavir, practically bouncing off the hard breastplate of his armor. One of the hard rivets poked her hard in the forehead.

"Cyric's blood," she sputtered, grabbing her head.

"My lady, are you alright?" Casavir said, reaching out towards her. She pulled away.

"Don't touch me!" she spat.

"I . . I am sorry, my lady," he said apologetically, backing away. "I did not mean to hurt you."

Maeve sighed, feeling a tiny pang of guilt for shouting at him. "I'm sorry I yelled. I know you just don't have it in you to hurt someone on purpose."

"Yet I have, hurt many, in my days," he said softly.

"You really need to relax," Maeve said, looking up at him. "It is all about what you intend to do anyway; isn't that what they say at the temple?"

"They also say the road to the hells is paved with good intentions," Casavir said, his voice dropping. "But I doubt you are in the mood to listen to my doubts tonight."

"I'm just in the mood for a drink," she said. He was watching her expectantly. "If you'd like to join me, I plan on getting obnoxiously drunk."

"Thank you," Casavir said, "But I know that my company would not be best for that sort of thing."

"Your loss," she said. She turned away, but paused for a moment. "Casavir?" she said softly, turning around.

"Yes my lady?"

"Can I ask you a question?" Maeve said, her voice just above a whisper.

"Of course. What do you wish of me?"

"I know you said you had some feelings for me, but is it all just duty and protection? Do you find me attractive?" she asked. She shook her head, knowing that the backlighting of glowing sunset would make the froth of her curls look like a halo around her face. That's what Bevil always told her anyway. She suppressed the urge to smirk, realizing she was encouraging all the behavior from Casavir she'd just been complaining about to Bishop.

Casavir blushed predictably, and he sputtered, "Yes . . . I mean, if you are asking if I find you appealing to look at . . . yes."

"Can't that be enough? At least for one night?" Maeve sighed, taking a step towards him.

He took a step back. "I . . . I don't . . .," he stuttered.

"Never mind," she said. "You'd never survive me in the mood I'm in. Good night Casavir."

"Good night, my lady," he said, his brow furrowed. With a curt bow, he turned and walked away. Maeve watched him go, and by the look of things, he would have run away if he hadn't been too dignified to do so. _Men,_ Maeve thought. _And paladins. What a waste. _ She watched as Casavir stalked up the hill, the back of his breeches pulling tight against his muscular legs. _He might just be worth the effort, to dirty his halo a bit. Might just get the taste of Bishop out of my mouth anyway._ She laughed at herself. She looked up at the sky, the orange glow of the sunset turning to blood red as the sun finally disappeared behind the hills.

_Beshaba, _she prayed silently, _ I think its time all this damned misfortune fell on someone else. Give me the strength to spread your destruction, but give me something in return, Nothing is for free, even faith._

A coldness spread over Maeve as she finished, like a cool breeze after a hot day. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the air feeling like an icy wind inside of her. She opened her eyes as one of the many cats that hung around the keep strolled up to her, looking for attention. With a wicked grin, Maeve kicked the scrawny thing in the side and it yowled piteously before skittering away. The randomness of it made the tension in Maeve's chest disappear for the first time since she'd smashed that damned smug look from Lorne's face with her flail. She reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear, and ran her hand over her lips and down her neck softly, seductively. Smiling in earnest now, she continued towards the Tail, unaware that Bishop watched her from the shadows, deciding against his better judgement, that he didn't think he was going to kill her after all.


	2. Haven

_We begin this time as the companions get ready to go to Jerro's Haven. They've already completed the Ritual of Purification._

_In advance, I apologize for what Maeve does to poor Casavir. I really am fond of him, as you might have guessed from my other works. But evil is as evil does._

_Rated M for violence, bad language and sexual situations. Lots of all of the above. The OC and NPCs, as always, belong to Obsidian._

#

Chapter 2: Haven

"Can we go already? My ancestor's death filled labyrinth awaits, apparently," Shandra complained. She was _always_ complaining. _How can you be so mean? A little compassion going to kill you? Why me? Boo-hoo. Gag me,_ Maeve thought, trying not to roll her eyes. As frustrating as Shandra was, she needed her to get into the haven. There was no way around it. Maeve glanced around the Phoenix Tail Inn, all her assorted weirdness of companions in their seemingly assigned places. The keep really hadn't changed things. The only difference was Sal was running the place instead of Duncan. It was funny how they all ended up here, instead of in the castle itself. But then again, this was a more familiar place, and far less cold. And with most of the castle still under construction, including her personal suite, the rooms here were far more comfortable.

"I will follow where you lead, my lady," Casavir offered predictably.

"Naturally," Maeve said. Under her breath, she muttered, "Since you obviously have a death wish anyway."

"What was that, my lady, I could not hear you?" Casavir asked.

"Got to work on those listening skills _paladin_," Bishop said from his customary table in the shadowed corner. He always used the word paladin like an insult. "You might learn something."

"I would not listen to your suggestions, no matter what they constituted," Casavir said haughtily.

"That's why you'll die with a dagger between your ribs someday," Bishop said, his voice like black ice.

"Is that a threat?" Casavir growled. Bishop laughed.

"You'll just have to wait and see," Bishop snorted. "And just to add some joy to your miserable life, I'll be right behind you the whole way to the lovely Jerro mountain retreat."

"Good, " Casavir said. "Then I can watch you and protect those you wish to harm with your malevolence."

"Who's watching who?" Bishop replied, grinning.

"Are you two just about finished?" Maeve interrupted.

Casavir's face flushed. "I am sorry lady, I did not wish to upset you with our . . . disagreement," he apologized. Bishop said nothing, just winked at Maeve and went back to his ale.

Maeve waved her hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. You two are like oil and water, its to be expected. Anyway, who else is up for another glorious suicide mission?"

"Oh me, me!" Grobnar said, running up to her with his wild mop of blonde hair sticking up in every direction. "You never take me anywhere! I've learned all new spells and songs, and a wonderful Wendersnaven story where the Queen of the . . . . "

"Okay, okay," Maeve interrupted. "Fine, you want to come? Go ahead. It's your funeral."

"Oh thank you!" Grobnar sputtered. "Now, I just have to get my things, I need my boots and my blue hat and . . . ." His voice trailed off as he wandered towards his room.

"I will ready myself as well," Casavir said. "When will we leave?"

"In the morning, I'd like one last night in a bed before another two weeks of sleeping in the dirt," Maeve said.

"As you wish. I will be in prayer until then," Casavir said, before bowing stiffly. He glared one last angry look at Bishop and stomped out of the room.

"Whatever turns you on," she said, too softly for him to hear. Shaking her head, she walked across the room and sat down at the shadowy corner table Bishop always haunted. She reached out and grabbed his mug of ale and took a long drink. Strangely, he didn't react, but just took it back from her and emptied it, setting it back down on the table silently.

"I'm not sure who I'll have to arrow first, the gnome or the Sir Pain in the Ass," Bishop said.

"Just wait until after we make it through this lovely maze of death, eh?" she replied. She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hand. "This is turning into entirely more work than I'm interested in. If it wasn't for this fucking shard in my chest, I swear to Beshaba, I'd just slaughter them all in their sleep and get the hells out of here."

Bishop grunted, but didn't say anything.

"What I want to know, is why you're still tagging along, with your grand hatred for orders, not to mention your plethora of good feelings for the rest of these misfits?" Maeve asked.

"Why not?" he replied. "Its not as if I've got anything more interesting to do. Besides, a debt is a debt, all the way until the end."

"That's a bunch of crap and you know it," she said.

"Probably."

"So why then?" she asked again.

"As much as I hate to admit it, traveling with you is the most fun I've had in years. And I get so much pleasure from tormenting Casavir, that I can hardly stand it."

"I can think of better pleasures," Maeve said, leaning towards him.

Bishop leaned in across the table, his face just inches from hers. His breath smelled of ale and smoke. His eyes were hooded and he wore a sly grin.

"I bet you can, which is yet another reason for sticking around," he whispered.

"You know, " she said. "If you don't take me up on it pretty soon, I'm going to stop offering."

"Patience is a virtue they say," he replied.

"What would you know about virtue? And like I told Casavir, I'm hardly overflowing with virtues."

Bishop reached out and ran his finger across her lips gently. Maeve closed her eyes. He traced her face with his finger, running it gently across her cheekbone and then her lashes. Then he stopped.

"We're leaving in the morning?" he whispered, his lips brushing against her cheek as he spoke.

"Yes," she murmured, her eyes still closed.

"Hmm," he said. She could hear him lean back in his chair. She opened her eyes reluctantly. Bishop folded his arms across his chest and tilted the chair back on two legs, swinging his feet up on to the table, crossing them at the ankles.

Frustrated, Maeve pushed her chair away from the table and stood up.

"Fine," she said. "In the morning. Try not to be too hungover." With a snort, she turned around and walked away. She hoped Bishop was watching, but when she looked behind to check as she reached to the door to the boarding rooms, he was gone.

#

Maeve undressed and slipped into bed, not bothering to light a lamp or a candle. Between the moonlight and her darkvision, it wasn't really necessary. She tied her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. Leaving on only her red amulet of Beshaba, she didn't bother to put on a nightgown. She always thought there was something liberating about being able sleep in the nude. And if someone attacked in the middle of the night? Well, that'd give the paladin a thrill, seeing her fight with her shield, flail and nothing else.

Pulling the blanket up only to her waist, she folded her arms behind her head and stared up at the glow of moonlight dancing across the wood ceiling. Slowly, her eyes closed and she drifted in and out of a light sleep. As much as she wanted that deep sleep like the dead, she knew that wouldn't happen. She'd gotten too much in the habit of sleeping with one eye open.

Suddenly, goose bumps raised on her skin and she had the unmistakable feeling of being watched. She opened her eyes. Bishop stood just inside the door, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. He had to know she could see him by the smirk on his face.

"I locked the door," she hissed.

"I noticed," he replied. He didn't move for a moment, but then gracefully uncrossed his arms and crossed the room to the side of her bed in a few strides of his long legs.

"I'd think you could see in the dark, the way you move," Maeve said. She didn't bother to cover herself or move her arms from behind her head. "But I know you can't."

"I know some tricks," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He leaned across her, his arm propping him up at her waist.

"Do you now?" she said.

"Shhh . . . don't talk," he hushed her, putting his finger across his lips. He reached out and trailed his hand down her arm, starting at her elbow. When he reached her side, he realized she was undressed. His eyes glittered. His slid his hand up her side, around her ribs. His hand found her scar and tracked it upwards. Slowly, very slowly.

Maeve's breath caught in her throat as he reached up and cupped her breast in his warm, calloused hand. He leaned in close to her, but instead of her mouth, his lips found the sensitive flesh of her neck, right above her collarbone. She moaned softly. With a growl, he practical leapt into the bed, rolling her on top of him. He still wore his leathers, and it felt damp against her bare flesh. His breathing was ragged. One hand slid down the small of her back to the curve of her thigh. With his other hand, he loosened the knot of her hair, letting in tumble down over him. He tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her down to him.

Bishop kissed her.

Just like before, Maeve felt like she was going to forget her own name. He twisted his fingers in her hair, grabbing it fiercely. His other hand ground her against him. The perpetual stubble he wore rubbed against her lips, chafing her, only adding to her thrill. The combination of his soft lips and tongue with that rougher texture . . . she moaned into his mouth.

She pulled away, sitting up and straddling him. She wriggled her hips a bit and watched with glee as his eyes closed and it was his turn to groan. She slipped back on to his thighs, reaching down to untie the laces of his breeches. She glanced back up at Bishop's face. His eyes were still closed and he was struggling to keep his breathing in check. Maeve unfastened the buckle of the belt holding his leather vest closed, folding it back to expose the vulnerable skin of his chest. Happily, she saw his muscular chest was nearly hairless, just a few soft hairs around his nipples and a light line of auburn hair on his belly, leading into the top of his breeches. She finished with the laces and slipped his breeches down over his slim hips.

She wasn't one for patience. In one swift move, she moved forward and slipped him inside of her. Bishop lost his battle with silence. "Oh gods," he moaned, pushing his hips up against her.

Maeve rode him fiercely. No tenderness. She didn't speak, or even moan. The room was silent except for the sound of their haggard breathing and the sound of flesh on flesh. Finally unable to stop himself, Bishop grabbed her by the waist and flung her on her on to her stomach. He pulled her up on to her knees and thrust himself into her hard enough to hurt. With a few painful thrusts of his hips and pulling her hair so hard her head was twisted back, he groaned loudly. She felt him pulse inside of her before he collapsed on top of her.

He rolled on to his back.

"Bitch," he muttered.

"What?" she asked incredulously, turning her face out of the pillow, still laying on her stomach.

"I wanted to make you beg," he said.

"We'll get to that," she replied.

#

Going to the haven was fairly uneventful. The way back was pathetic. Grobnar wept, Casavir brooded. And Ammon Jerro? She had no idea what the hells to make of him. He was very full of himself, actually having the audacity to blame Maeve for killing Shandra. As if the cow hadn't cut herself open, nearly bled to death and then been roasted by Ammon's hellfire blast. She had a grand desire to knock the smug look off his face the same as she had for Lorne. But then again, he'd finished part of the ritual, and she knew that without him, she'd be utterly screwed.

Bishop kept insisting he had to scout ahead, leaving her alone with the three strange men. She spent the long painful hours of the trek back to the keep, listening to Grobnar sing short snippets of a song he was composing in Shandra's honor before bursting into tears over and over again. Eventually, he wore himself into such a state that Maeve and Casavir had to take turns carrying him when he'd faint. If Casavir hadn't been there, she probably would have slit the annoying gnome's throat, just to stop the blubbering. But she knew she couldn't get away with that sort of thing with Casavir around.

As much as it should have pissed her off, all that Tyrran posturing, other parts of her body made her behave. Bishop had rekindled a fire in her that she thought she had under control. And then he made himself scarce. She might have started with that begging he'd wanted, if he'd just stuck around. So instead of begging Bishop to touch her, she spent her time staring at Casavir and wondering what he kept hidden under his armor. He might be a self righteous prig, but he was incredibly good looking too.

Maeve did feel a little guilty about not feeling sorrow when Casavir insisted on holding a memorial for Shandra a few days after they'd returned to the keep. Honestly, she was just happy to not have to listen to her incessant whining. The guilt didn't last long, it never did anymore. It was one of the myriad of reasons that Maeve knew she was bound directly for the hells. She was glad when Casavir finally stopped all the praying and hand-wringing and she could escape to her now finished suite in the castle.

Things had finally changed.

Once the castle interior was finished, there was finally room to spread out. Khelgar, Neeshka and Bishop still spent most of their time at the Tail, but the others found their own little niches in the castle. There was a lot less bickering anyway. That was something. But of course, Casavir had insisted on a room next to hers, so he could protect her, or whatever the hells it was he thought he was doing. Mostly, he stayed in the war room, pouring over books of tactics and historical battles. Supposedly to prepare to hold the keep. Maeve figured it was a damned effective way to cool any desire he might have otherwise felt, all those dusty tomes about death.

After their one night together, Bishop had been avoiding her like she had the Wailing Death.

She _hated _the fact that it bothered her.

Outside the door of her suite, she could hear Casavir walking through the hall to his room. The clinking of his armor was unmistakable. She heard him pause right outside the door for a moment, then continued on, slower now. She leapt to her feet, and flung the door open, just as Casavir was walking through the door to his room. He turned to look at her. There were dark circles under his eyes.

"Do you need something my lady?" he asked.

Maeve took a few steps towards him and leaned against the wall. Her long hair was unbound, and tucked over her shoulder. As usual when out of armor, she wore a soft grey robe. It was finer fabric than she'd had before. She was a noble after all. "Just some company," she said, containing herself enough to not sound seductive and scare him off. Casavir tried to smile and failed. He gestured to his room.

"You are welcome to join me," he said.

"I will, " she said, coming up behind him. "I can help you with all those buckles on your armor."

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised, but didn't say anything.

"I know how hard it is to reach some of them without help," she said in her best sweet and innocent voice.

"Of course," he said, "After you." He followed her into the room and clicked the door closed behind them. Setting down his ceremonial sword and helmet on the table, he turned to look at her. There were actually tears in his eyes.

Maeve felt that tiny pang of guilt again. She knew exactly what she planned to do here. She'd figured out that sorrow made Casavir vulnerable, and more likely to give into her than any other time. She saw a glimpse of it when they'd been in the temple in Ahrvan, when he'd asked her to bury him there. Of course, Bishop piped up immediately with a rude comment about sex on a grave. And Casavir's normally well checked temper had raged. She'd barely managed to keep him from taking Bishop's head off. So sorrow was what did it for him. And anger or passion? Really not that different emotions.

The guilt faded even faster this time.

"Here," she said softly, reaching out, "Let me help you with that." She slowly unfastened the leather straps at his side and another at his neck, helping him slide out of the ceremonial plate he'd worn to speak for Shandra. It wasn't so complicated like actual armor, and she knew he didn't really need her help to get out of it. She also knew that he realized that too, but was going along with the farce anyway.

She'd been right about the sorrow thing.

"Thank you," he said, taking the breastplate from her. The blue robe he wore underneath the armor was open in the front, and without the breastplate to hold it, it gaped open to his narrow waist. She saw he'd worn soft black pants, boots and nothing else. Maeve fought the urge to grin. She couldn't wait to get that halo dirty. But she knew this was going to take some subtlety. He'd know if she lied to him, so nothing but the truth. She knew he wanted so badly for her to love him, but she also knew she didn't. She felt something akin to love, but a little lower centered in her body. But then again, those irritating priests at the Temple of Sune had taught her that desire and love were not so far apart, but joined. So, why not use what they taught her to get what she wanted?

In the back of her head, she thought she heard Beshaba laugh.

Casavir sat down on the edge of the bed unceremoniously and cradled his face in his hands. Maeve gingerly sat next to him and put her hand on his knee.

"This is very hard for you, isn't it?" she asked him.

"Yes," he said without looking at her. "It does not seem just for Shandra to die like that. But I am glad that you still had mercy with Ammon Jerro."

_Mercy?_ Maeve thought. _I need him to deal with this King of Shadows freak, otherwise I would have slit his throat, not for Shandra, but just for being such a pompous ass._

"I hope this means that some of what I have spoken to you about has begun to mean something to you," Casavir said, looking at her expectantly.

"We'll see, I suppose," she replied. It wasn't a lie. He'd see. Of course, she was certain he wouldn't like it, but he'd see.

Casavir turned to face her, tears actually streaming down his cheeks now. Maeve thought that it probably wasn't normal to be turned on by someone all wrecked and in pain like he clearly was. But again, she'd realized a long time ago that she wasn't normal. She reached out and brushed away the tears, and he captured her hand, holding it against his hot face. He met her eyes.

There was such pain and longing in his blue eyes that it nearly took her breath away.

"Maeve," he said her name like she was worthy of worship. She tilted her head and slid a bit closer to him. He still held her hand against his face, turning his face to kiss the palm of her hand.

"Maeve, I . . . I love," he started to say, but she knew if he finished that sentence it was all over. She couldn't say it in return like he wanted her to. He'd clam up again and send her back to her own room, even more sexually frustrated than she already was. So instead she kissed him. He could take it however he wanted.

Casavir wasn't like Bishop at all. He didn't throw her around, or leap on top of her, no matter how much she wanted him to. He let her kiss him, he let her guide his hand to her breast. He let her touch him. Despite how hard he was, he didn't try to push her or rush her into anything. Maeve smiled against his neck as she kissed him, feeling the thickness of him under her hand. And he was just going to let her have her way with him. Apparently, he'd given up.

She leaned back and looked into his eyes.

"Casavir," she said softly. His eyes closed. "Just let me give you some comfort," she said, "Gods know you need it." His only reply was a supplicating moan as he pulled her to him and buried his face in her neck. She pushed the robes back off his shoulders, wrapping her arms around him. He was shaking. Maeve felt a surge of power come over her.

_Let's spread the misfortune all around, _Maeve thought. _And what's more unfortunate than a fallen paladin? _She slipped out of his arms and knelt on the floor between his knees. Delicately, she undid the buckles on this boots and pulled them off, one by one. She looked up to see him watching her intently. All that earlier sobbing had been replaced by a look of naked desire on his face. Reaching up, she untied the drawstring on his trews and he lifted his hips off the bed to help her slide them down. She slid them over his feet and set them gently on the floor. Still not looking and wanting to savor the moment, she rested her cheek against his thigh. She turned her head and kissed the soft skin of his inner thigh, moving her way upwards. Slowly, deliberately, she ran her tongue along his skin and with a sigh, captured him in her mouth.

He gasped in shock and pleasure, throwing his head back and instinctively weaving his fingers into her hair. She was a little surprised by his reaction. He was a thirty-five year old man and certainly no stranger to sex, even with all his paladin repression. This must have been something new for him though, considering the way he let his normal gentleness disappear as he pushed on the back of her head. It was nice to see even he had a bit of animal in him too.

Reluctantly, she pulled away. As pleasurable as that was, she didn't want things to be over quite so soon. And Maeve didn't have any delusions that she'd be able to get Casavir out of his pants a second time.

She stood and pulled her robes over her head in one graceful move, letting them crumple on to the floor at her feet. Casavir stared at her. His eyes were fever bright. Tentatively, he reached out for her. She stepped closer, letting him run his hand down her rib cage to her waist, pulling her closer. He kissed the wicked scar between her breasts.

"I did not realized how close you'd come to death," he said, leaning his face against the rumpled flesh of her old wound. "It is so close to your heart."

"Shhh . . . ," she hushed him. "No more talk about death, not now. Now is for living." She moved to lay on the bed and he followed, laying on top of her. He slid down to rest his head on her breasts. She could feel him pulsing against her thigh.

He shuttered and looked up at her. "Maeve," he whispered, sliding up between her thighs and holding his weight off her with his elbows. He twisted one of her curls around his finger. "I'm afraid," he continued.

"Why?" she asked, suddenly afraid herself. Although likely for very different reasons. The only thing that comforted her was how hard he still was, paused just a hairbreadth away from where she wanted him.

"Because I should not love you," he said, moving forward. Maeve felt him slip inside her. He was hard as steel; if this was what all those years of good living caused, she thought she might have to find more paladins to tempt. She closed her eyes for a second. He started to move slowly, sliding out and in, his eyes fixed on hers like he could bore into her soul. Every emotion Maeve had a name for fluttered across his face.

"But I cannot help myself," he continued as his thrusting began to speed. Maeve arched up against him. It felt like he was not just filling her with his cock, but trying to fill her with his soul. With a whimper, she clutched at him and felt her whole body pulse with pleasure. Unable to hold back any longer, Casavir joined her, pushing himself so hard inside of her that she slid up the coarse linens and her head hit the wall behind the bed.


	3. Reavers and Druids and a Paladin, oh my

_This begins after fighting the Circle of the Mere. In this version, Elanee turns against the PC, and dies with them._

_Again, the OC and NPCs belong to Obsidian._

_And please heed the M rating. This chapter is mostly just language and a touch of violence, but nonetheless, very adult themes._

_#_

Chapter 3: Reavers and Druids and a Paladin, oh my!

"Cyric's Ass!" Maeve screamed, "That hurts, stop it." She was sitting on the soggy ground, the armor and her legging removed from her left leg and a long gash from a boar tusk on her shin. _Bastard Druids_, she thought, looking at the ugly wound. The moss under her was soft and could have ben pleasant if it hadn't been so wet.

"I am just trying to heal your wounds," Casavir said softly, pulling his hands back and setting them on his knees. "But it does not seem to be working." The pale gold glow faded from his hands as he pulled back his divine magic. Bishop snickered.

"Do you find Maeve's pain funny?" Casavir snapped at him, his jaw tense.

"Not hers, yours," Bishop said, still grinning.

"Look Casavir," Maeve said, ignoring Bishop, "I can heal myself, just go look after Khelgar and Neeshka. Besides, they seem pretty upset that we had to kill Elanee too."

Casavir stood obediently, and with a cold glare at Bishop, he followed orders. Bishop's grin didn't fade as he watched Casavir stomp away. Gracefully, Bishop knelt down beside her and with a soft word, he touched the wound on her leg and it sealed itself in moments. Without pain.

"I still don't know how you can do that without divine help," Maeve said, rubbing the now smooth skin of her leg, before pulling her legging back down and starting to refasten her armor.

"You do know why Casavir can't heal you any more?" Bishop asked.

"Illuminate me," she said, still focused on her buckles.

"Tyr isn't real fond of Beshaba you know, considered unjust to heal someone with evil intent," Bishop explained.

Maeve snorted, "They why can I still heal him?"

"Eh, evil gods aren't quite so bigoted," Bishop shrugged.

"You know a lot about this whole thing for someone who doesn't believe in the gods," Maeve said, looking up at him.

"I _believe_ in them, I just don't worship them. They're insane," he muttered. "And a little too cruel for even my taste. Especially the vaunted 'good' gods, nasty creatures."

"Hm," Maeve grunted.

"What's that mean?" Bishop said, meeting her eyes. His smirk was gone, and his eyes looked hollow. Maeve furrowed her brow. Instinctually, she reached out and gently touched his face with her hand. He snapped back like he'd been slapped.

"And what's _that_ for?" he asked.

Maeve shook her head and suppressed a giggle. "It's a tradition from my little swamp village. You know, showing affection to someone you like."

Bishop's face broke out into a goofy grin. "Nice swamp," he said.

"You are a strange man," she said, holding her hand out. "Want to reciprocate and help me get up out of the mud?" Bishop stood and helped her to her feet. He pulled her against him, the hard plate of her armor squished between them. He kissed her softly on the forehead and stopped to look at her. She strained in towards him and kissed his lips, not nearly so softly. She could hear Casavir's anguished gasp, but she ignored it.

"This mean you've decided I don't have the plague after all?" she whispered.

"Don't know," Bishop replied. "But I have decided I'd rather have you where I can see you, interesting view."

"Just interesting?" she smirked.

"Don't push it," Bishop replied. He kissed her again and then let her go abruptly. "I'll see you back at the keep, Knight Captain." He gave her a sarcastic, mocking bow and slipped into the trees. She watched him go, an unexpected smile on her face. She was happy he was back. As much as that entanglement might make things more complicated, it defiantly made things more interesting too. Not to mention that he made her toes curl. A memory of his body and the salty taste of Bishop's skin danced through her head and she licked her lips, still staring into the trees.

Casavir grabbed her elbow and spun her to face him, snapping her out of her daydream. His face was as pale as death, and his eyes glittered angrily. A vein was pulsing in his temple. Maeve looked up at him sheepishly. This wasn't going to be pretty.

"My lady," he said quietly between his clenched teeth. "How could you touch him? After . . . especially after what has happened between _us_?"

"And what is that exactly?" Maeve spat, suddenly angry. "Did I get drunk and marry you or something?"

"You know of what I speak," he whispered. He stared at her, pain, rage and a more horrible, softer emotion equally mixed in his eyes. Maeve looked away and tried to turn away from him, but he tightened his grip on her arm fiercely, pinching her skin between the hard metal. She looked back at him, the only emotion in her eyes was anger.

"Let go," she said, keeping her voice as quiet as his had been. "You're hurting me." She expected he'd release her, apologize and walk away. But instead he gripped her arm even tighter.

"No," he said. "I will not."

"What did you expect was going to happen?" she sighed, realizing there was no way out of this one. She'd pushed him too far this time.

"How can you stand there and ask me such a question? I have told you how I feel, and you behaved as if you shared my feelings," Casavir said, a hint of tears in his voice.

"Casavir," Maeve started, but couldn't finish. For some reason, she just couldn't spit out some awful thing to him to make him leave. She wanted to feel infuriated, tell him he was an idiot. But something stopped her. It wasn't love, she wasn't so foolish to think she could feel that for him. Even if he wasn't a paladin, he would still be entirely to good for her.

He stared at her expectantly.

"I know what you want me to say," she muttered, looking down at the ground. "But I can't. I won't lie to you." She looked up at him. The rage had faded from his eyes, leaving behind only the pain and his foolish love for her. His grasp on her arm softened, but he didn't let go.

"Am I so vile to you?" he whispered.

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "You are entirely too good to waste your feelings on me. I doubt I'm even capable of feeling such things."

"Lady," he whispered, pulling her against him. Maeve closed her eyes and hoped desperately that Bishop really had gone, and wasn't watching from the tree line.

"Please, don't," she said, pulling back. Casavir let her go reluctantly. He swallowed, blinked, and his face was stoic and cold as ever in a moment.

"As you wish," he said, taking a step back.

"I'm sorry Casavir," she said, "I really am." Strangely, she thought she might actually mean that.

"I will wait," he said, taking her hand and pressing it chastely again his lips. Maeve opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed his fingers across her lips, silencing her. "No, don't speak," he said. "We will speak another time."

Before she could even think of something to say, he turned away and went back to the others. Neeshka and Khelgar were watching them, and shared a knowing glance. They weren't stupid after all. Maeve wondered for a moment what they thought of all this distraction, but then thought better of it. What did she care what they thought anyway?

#

The hike back to the keep was boring. They never talked about the endless hours of trudging in the old tales. But that was more of what they did than anything. It wasn't until Bishop returned with a scout from the keep on his heels that things got interesting again. Bishop looked invigorated. His face was hidden in heavier stubble and his face was smudged with dirt, but he was a ranger, through and through. Being out in the wilds certainly agreed with him. And so did the pained look on Casavir's face when he grabbed Maeve for a kiss. She could taste the glee in Bishop's kiss. Sometimes she wondered if pissing off Casavir had more to do with his suddenly affectionate nature than she did.

"Knight Captain Maeve," Bishop drawled. "This incredibly inept scout has a message for you."

The young man blushed. He wore a sparklingly new grey cloak, and the skin on his face was still as smooth as a child's.

"I'm sorry, Captain. Sir . . . um, Ma'am," the boy stuttered. "But I did find Sir Bishop here, and he helped me find you."

"_Sir_ Bishop?" Maeve smirked. She suppressed a laugh. "Never mind. What's this important message?"

"Our patrols found the reaver's camp, it's not far from here," he stumbled over the words nervously.

"Hells," Maeve cursed. "Fantastic, an all new suicide mission."

"There's more Knight Captain," the boy continued. "Kana said to wait until the warlock shows up to face them, he's got some scroll or such you'll need."

"True names," Bishop said quietly.

"Did he say when he'd be here?" Maeve asked the boy.

"He said he could teleport to the edge of the Mere and then he'd walk in to find you. Said you should stay put once I found you, so he could find you."

"Beautiful," Maeve muttered. "Another lovely evening in the swamp it is then. Thanks for the message . . ah, what's your name?"

"Caleb," the boy said proudly. "It was my pa's name."

"Well, then Caleb, can you find your way back?"

"Yeah, I think," he said. "But I could stay and help if you want." Caleb's face was eager. Obviously he'd never had a chance at battle yet.

Before she could reply, Bishop spoke. "Get out of here kid, the Captain only needs one of us. And I've got a few more tricks than you do. Trust me, you don't want to be here. You'll be bloody soon enough."

"Of course Sir Bishop," he said, turning back to Maeve. "Any message you want me to take back?"

"Tell Kana to have some hot baths waiting for us," she said.

"And some cold ale!" Khelgar added.

"That too," Maeve continued. "We'll be back soon."

With a salute and a crooked bow, Caleb loped off into the trees. Maeve shook her head. "Stupid kids." Bishop slipped up behind her and slung his arm over her shoulder.

"So how are we going to manage to spend all this lovely evening?" he asked lecherously.

"Oh I'm sure you'll think of something," she purred. Casavir stomped over and knocked Bishop's arm off her shoulder.

"Do not touch her," Casavir spat.

"And why in the Nine Hells would I ever listen to you _paladin_?" Bishop snorted.

"I will not allow you to . . . . to . . . ." Casavir's face was red.

"To what? To do what both me and _you_ have already done to her? I think it's a little late to be defending her honor."

"How dare you!" Casavir said venomously. "How can you compare your taking advantage of her to what . . . . "

Maeve stepped between them. "For Tyr's sake will you both shut the fuck up?"

"Lady," Casavir said, putting his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off, and turned to glare at him.

"Look, let's get a few things straight," she said, glancing back and forth between Casavir and Bishop, both bristled like alley dogs and itching to fight. "Casavir, I don't know what you think is going on, or who you think I am, but Bishop is right, it _is_ too late to defend my honor. You lost that right once I got you out of your armor. And you," she continued, turning back to Bishop, "Stop trying to jam an arrow up his ass. I don't need you to defend me, in your sick little way, either."

As if she hadn't spoke, they continued to stare at each other.

"By all the gods, do you two just need to beat the hells out of each other, or do you want I should just fuck the both of you at once?" she spat.

Bishop laughed. "That'd be something."

Casavir was not amused. Fuming, he glared at Maeve.

"How can you say such things? How can you even think about touching someone as vile as Bishop, after you've touched _me!_" he shouted, louder than he seemed to intend. He looked shocked at himself and at his sudden prideful admission.

"Well then," Bishop said. "I wasn't sure she'd actually manage to bed you, I would have thought you'd been less uptight afterwards, not more." Bishop snickered. "But then again, you'd probably never been _serviced_ by an angel of Sune before; its rather addictive isn't it? Why do you think I'm here?"

"What happened between Maeve and I was not so low," Casavir growled, his voice quieter now, but filled with righteous anger. Maeve hoped he wasn't going to try to "smite evil" or she was going to have to blast him. Casavir continued, his fingers gripping the hilt of his hammer. "I would not expect that one such as you would know any better."

"Stop," Maeve said, pushing on Casavir's chest. He stumbled back, shocked. He gaped at her. "Knock it the fuck off. I don't know what you think is going on here. I'm glad you got something out of what happened. But it wasn't some spiritual event Casavir. It was sex. And you were in as desperate need of it as I was. Don't turn this into something its not. Two adults giving each other some comfort, that was all."

Bishop laughed again.

"Shut up Bishop," she spat at him over her shoulder. "Why don't you go kill something for us to eat?" Bishop's laugh cut off.

"I don't like orders, _Captain_," he said.

"It's not an order Bishop," she sighed. "Please. Humor me, besides, I'm hungry. And I promise I'll make it worth your while." She winked at him. The smirk returned to Bishop's face just as Casavir tensed.

"As you wish, my lady," Bishop laughed again, slinging his bow over his shoulder. "Have fun taming your paladin." With that, he slunk away again into the overgrowth, disappearing as if he'd cast a spell.

"I hate him," Casavir growled. "I know I should not hate anyone, but I _hate_ him Maeve. I want to see him dead and lay his corpse at your feet."

"How lovely," Maeve muttered. She looked up at him, crossing her arms across her chest. "Now, I want you to humor me, what in the hells has gotten into you?"

"Do you actually need to ask?" Casavir replied, incredulous.

"I thought we agreed to talk about this later," she sighed. "And until then? Well, I thought you were going to leave it be. I already told you, I can't be what you want me to be."

"I don't believe that," he said, resigned. "But I did say I would wait. I should not go back on my word to you."

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't love Bishop. But as much as you are going to hate to hear it, he does have his uses. And I was a cleric of Sune; I have the blood of her deva in my veins, I have _needs_ Casavir, and obviously, its just going to hurt you to keep fulfilling them for me. No matter how pleasurable it was."

"It was . . . that . .. my lady, but it was painful as well. It breaks my heart just to look at you," Casavir said softly.

"Then let me have what I need, if you truly care about me. It's you or him. Either that or I'll have to bed the dwarf, and it's not exactly an appealing thought."

Casavir smiled despite himself. "I have heard that those of celestial blood do have urges from the deity that spawned their blood. I am sorry to be selfish."

_I'm sorry to lie to you,_ Maeve thought, _since that's complete and utter bullshit. But I don't want to chase you off. Lots of undead coming up and I can't turn them all myself. Besides, if you actually believe this feck, maybe I'll be able to dirty that halo a bit more._ It was an appealing thought. Although he wasn't as much fun as Bishop, Casavir certainly had an incredible . . . gift. She wouldn't mind getting that gift again.

"Don't get yourself all worked up over it," she said. "Besides, you never know what might happen. I could always sprout wings." She laughed at herself, and happily, so did Casavir. It was a bit disturbing though. He really did love her, if he was willing to go along with this farce.

"I will try," Casavir said. "It will not be easy to watch you touch him."

"I'll try to be discrete," she replied. "For your sake."

Casavir smiled, "Thank you. You do have much kindness in you, no matter what you say."

"As you wish," she said. With a curt nod, Casavir turned back to the camp, taking over Neeshka's pathetic attempt at a shelter with practiced hands. Maeve closed her eyes.

She wondered what the deal was with this. Anyone else trying so hard to defend her, love her, and she would have ripped their throat out. She wondered if it was her celestial blood after all, affecting her judgement. It was better for her if he was around, he was useful in a fight, and she knew he'd throw himself in front of a sword for her. That was useful. But he'd stay even if she'd slapped him. He thought they were on some divine quest, he'd told her as much. He wasn't going anywhere until this was over. So why then did she keep leading him on?

#

_The reaver in the camp on the edge of the Mere is dead._

_#_

"I swear to all the gods Ammon, if you don't shut up, I'm going to kill you," Maeve growled. "Warlock or not, my flail can still cave your head in. And if I gave the word, there'd be a fucking line to send you back to Baator."

Ammon snorted. "You need me, so why don't you stop with the empty threats."

Maeve turned her back to him. He was right. And now that she saw that the true names actually worked . . . she could take the Gith instead of Ammon, but she was even more irritating than he was. She looked at Maeve like some savior, some avenging angel. A lot like Casavir looked at her. But unlike Casavir, the gith was green, ugly and female. So she couldn't forgive her mooning.

They'd finally made it back to the Keep; the place was a buzz of activity and rumors. Maeve stood on the inner keep wall, and was thrilled when she heard Ammon grunt and stomp off. Nevalle and the Nine were posted in the rebuilt tower and they led the men through morning exercises. Casavir had joined them as usual. Despite whatever problems he'd had with Neverwinter, and what problems it had with him, he fell back into the role of a leader of men with ease. The day promised to be hot, and many of the men were going through the motions with their shirts off. Including Casavir. He held a simple long sword, instead of his hammer and he went through a series of graceful forms. A few greycloaks tried to copy his movements.

Sunlight glinted off his moist skin. Maeve licked her lips. But then she thought better of it. No point in getting herself all excited.

She turned away and leaned up against the cool stone. She ran her hands back and forth across the rough cut blocks. She slid down and sat on the ground, tucking her legs underneath her. She'd choose to wear a tunic and leggings today -- the robe just wasn't practical anymore, not with all the ridiculous running about Kana had her doing. Maeve might be a Knight and Captain of the Keep, and Kana's supposed superior, but Kana ran the show. Maeve didn't have any delusions.

She heard a pained shout from a familiar voice and she leapt to her feet. She looked down into the courtyard and saw Casavir crouched over a still form on the ground. He lifted his hands for a moment and they glistened with brilliant red blood. Maeve eyes widened. She heard Casavir start to chant and saw the glow of his divine magic take over. Not just his hands, but his whole body. This wasn't a healing spell, he was trying to raise dead. And he wasn't very good at it.

Maeve turned and ran. This was the sort of spell you only got one shot at. She didn't know who was lying there, but she did know they couldn't afford to lose even one body, not with what was coming. And she knew that even if Casavir wasn't good at it, she was. Her resurrection spell could return someone from death, to full health with a few words.

Amazingly, she managed not to trip and made it to Casavir's side before he laid his hands on the unmoving form in front of him. She pushed him out of the way roughly, and the gold glow faded quickly.

"What in the hells are you doing?" She spat at him. "If you fuck it up, I can't help." He looked up at her.

"I had to do something," Casavir whimpered. "Or you would hate me." Maeve looked confused.

"Why?" she muttered, looking down finally at the still form. It was Bishop. She fell to her knees. "What did you do to him?"

"I . . . I did not intend to," Casavir stuttered.

There was a bloody gash in the front of Bishop's tunic. He hadn't been wearing armor and it appeared he was unarmed, not even his skinning knife was in the sheath on his belt. A long sword stained in blood lay on the ground nearby. Bishop's eyes were half open, but she could only see the whites of his eyes and his skin was pale and grey.

"He came into the yard . . . ," Casavir continued. "And began to speak of you. I could not stop myself."

Maeve glared at him. Quickly, she set her hands on Bishop's chest and felt the simultaneously hot and cold feeling of Beshaba flow through her. Her hands glowed red for a moment and Bishop suddenly took a deep shuttering breath. He rolled over on to his side, coughing furiously.

"Are you all right?" Maeve asked him. He nodded.

"No thanks to the paladin," Bishop spat as he caught his breath. Maeve helped him stand. Although he was healed, being brought back from the dead was still unnerving, she knew. She slung Bishop's arm over her shoulder to help him back to the castle.

"Maeve," Casavir started.

"No," she said, not even turning back to look at him. "I don't want to hear it."


	4. I Hate You

_If you are offended by violent sexual behavior, this is not something you should read._

_As always, the usual disclaimer, OC and NPCs owned by Obsidian._

_Chapter 4: I Hate You_

#

Silently, she helped Bishop to her bed. Maeve almost expected that somewhere along the way he would protest, or say something rude, but he was uncharacteristically silent. He sat him down on the bed and went back to close the door. She debated for a moment, then threw the bolt, locking them inside.

"Expecting company?" Bishop asked, his voice still raspy and breathless.

"Better safe than sorry," she replied. She stood in front of him, her hands on her hips. He looked up at her. "Off with the tunic," she continued. "I need to make sure you're all put back together."

Bishop chuckled, but obeyed, slipping the light green tunic over his head. He looked up at her again with his best kicked puppy face. She grinned and shook her head, kneeling down in front of him. There was still blood in his skin, but no wound. She reached over to the table and dipped her hand into the water pitcher. She gently wiped the blood away to be sure. Bishop's skin was silk smooth, expect for the scarred bits. Some looked like knife wounds, others animal bites, but there was also a strange number of places that looked burned. She looked up and met his eyes.

Not speaking, she stood and grabbed a rag, wetting it and crawled up on to the bed behind him. There was more blood on his back -- the blade had apparently gone all the way through. She cleaned the blood away, and realized that much of his back was scarred with what looked like old burns. His right shoulder was the worst, the skin there was crumpled like old parchment. She touched his damaged skin and murmured a spell. The flesh smoothed under her fingertips.

"Don't bother," Bishop said, pulling away just a bit. "I think I like those."

"You think?" she asked, setting her hands on his shoulders.

"Yeah," he replied, leaning back against her.

"Why's that?" she asked.

"Do you really want to know?" Bishop rested his head against her breasts and closed his eyes.

"Is it a good story?" she asked, looking down at him.

"No," he replied. "It's awful."

"Well then, let's hear it."

"No," he said, still leaning against her. Maeve sighed. Trying to get Bishop to talk to her was harder than getting Grobnar to shut up.

"Not even a little?" she asked softly, leaning in close, letting her lips brush his rough cheek as she spoke.

"Luskan," he said.

"You do really hate them don't you? Want to share?"

"I was a soldier for them, and I can rightly say I didn't much like the work. So I left."

"I think there's more to that than you're letting on. Besides, still doesn't tell me where you got the scars."

"There's more, there was always more. That was the problem. But you don't need to know every twist and turn in the story, it'll give you nightmares."

"I doubt it," she said. "But I won't pry."

"Thanks," he replied. Maeve kissed his cheek softly. He turned his face and she kissed his mouth. It was the sort of soft kiss she didn't think either of them were capable of. But there it was.

"Do you want to lay down?" she asked him. "I know resurrection spells aren't pleasant."

"Only if you stay with me," Bishop said. His voice was soft. For a moment, Maeve thought she was going nuts.

She slid back on the bed, making room for him. She leaned back and he curled up against her.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"No. I'm not," Bishop said. " I saw something, when I was dead. I didn't like it, but at the same time, it was exactly what I wanted. That doesn't make any sense, does it?" His eyes were still closed, but he rolled over to face her. He pulled her close and buried his face in her neck. "But thanks for saving my worthless hide anyway."

Maeve wrapped her arms around him, surprised to feel that he was shaking a bit. _Who the hells are you and what have you done with Bishop?_ she pondered. He pulled away and opened his eyes. Again, he kissed her, all soft and sweet like. Slowly, the kiss became something she was a bit more used to from him. His stubble rasped against her lips.

"Are you just going to disappear again?" she whispered.

"No," he replied, kissing her again. She leaned back, grinning. His eyes were well filled with lust, but there was something else there.

"Can I ask, before you've got me too worked up to think, what the hells you said to Casavir to make him . . . well . . . kill you?" Maeve asked.

Bishop snorted. "Probably the worst possible thing I could have. He barked at me, made some very un-paladin like comment. So I told him that he could fuck off, because no matter what he thought, you loved me, and I loved you too."

Maeve felt for a moment that the ground had been pulled out from under her. "You told him what?"

"Just the truth, worse for him than any lie."

"Where the hells did that come from? And since when did I love you?"

"Since right now," Bishop said. He grinned at her devilishly.

"That's really not fair."

"I know. I never play fair."

"Besides, you don't love me, he'd see right through that."

"Not if I meant it." Maeve furrowed her brow, tried to scowl at him.

"Why do you need to make everything so damned complicated?" she asked. "Anyway, I didn't think you were into getting tied down to anything or anyone."

"I'm not," he explained. "But you're the only person I've ever met with any sense. And who's nasty enough to appreciate my . . . talents. Besides, that's the thing, you don't try to tie me down. Although, I might be interested, if you're talking literally." Then he laughed, and kissed her again, this time in a way that ended any chance of coherent conversation.

After two rounds of surprisingly athletic sex, especially for a man who'd been dead earlier, Bishop fell asleep. Maeve managed to untangle herself from him. She dressed and pulled the coverlet up over his shoulders and kissed him on the forehead before sneaking out quietly. _Now I'm mothering him?_ she thought as she closed the door and used her key to lock it.

#

It didn't take long to find Casavir. He was pacing a furrow into the dirt outside the main door into the castle. Maeve wasn't sure whether to be pissed or pleased with him. Bishop was back in her bed, right where she wanted him. But in a way she wasn't sure she wanted, yet she couldn't help but admit to herself that she was happy with this turn of events.

"Casavir," she said. He spun around. His face was pale.

"Maeve, I'm so sorry," he said, taking a few steps forward. She put her hand up and he stopped short.

"I don't want to hear your excuses. Besides, you should know by now that Bishop loves to bait you. I thought you were better than that, but apparently, I was wrong."

"I don't know what came over me," he sighed, looking at the ground. "I can only hope that you and Tyr can forgive me."

"You know exactly what it was," she snapped at him. "It's called jealously. And you better just get over it. I have no idea what the hells you would want with me anyway."

Casavir was silent. He stared at the dirt as if it would suddenly spell out an answer.

"Look, " Maeve continued. "Bishop's fine, and asleep. Just don't piss him off, because I'm not sure that as happy with you as I am right now, that I'd bother to waste a resurrection spell on your sorry corpse."

Casavir looked up at her with glittering eyes. He pulled his shoulders back, and stood straight as a board.

"Just go, pray at the damned temple you insisted I build in the keep. Flog yourself, I really don't care. But right now, I really would rather you just got the hells . . . ."

Before she could finish, a bedraggled looking scout came running up the hill. His face was red with exertion. He collapsed to his knees at Maeve's feet.

"Knight Captain," he panted between struggling breaths. "Its Commander Collum, he's under attack by Shadow Reavers!"

Maeve knelt down in front of him. "Where?"

"Just beyond the fields, by the river."

"Shadow and Hells!" Maeve spat. "Casavir, get everyone together, and make sure to grab Ammon or the gith."

"Collum was to hold Highcliff, if he's here?" Casavir said.

"I know, we're fucked. Get on with it!" she shouted at him. He ran off, looking equally concerned for the upcoming battle, and relieved that he got out of there before Maeve could tell him to leave her.

Maeve sprinted back into the keep and flung the door to her suite open after fumbling with the key. Bishop sat up in the bed groggily. He propped his head in this hand.

"What's going on?" he asked as Maeve wrestled the Sword of Gith out of the silk she'd wrapped it in. She _hated_ that fucking sword. It was like the damn thing was alive and she wasn't really in control when she held it.

"Highcliff," Maeve answered him, setting the sword on the table and reaching for her armor on the stand in the corner. "We're fucked."

Bishop swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Yeah, not a moments rest."

"Oh no," she said, turning back to him. "Not you. You'll just fall over."

"Yeah, whatever," he said trying to stand. He wobbled on his feet a little, and sat back down hard. "Maybe not."

Maeve laughed.

"Don't worry, I'll kick some shadowy ass and be back before nightfall," she said.

"Ha." Bishop said. "I don't worry about you. No need."

"Thanks," she said, kissing him on the top of the head. She turned away to grab her armor and Bishop stopped her by grabbing her hand.

"I wasn't kidding before," Bishop said, dropping her hand. "But don't expect I'm going to be your dog now. I won't be spouting any poetry either."

"Perish the thought," Maeve said, grabbing the bits of armor she could.

"As long as we're clear," he said.

"Asshole," she laughed at him as she headed out the door.

"Bitch," he replied, grinning.

#

_Another Shadow Reaver bites the dust._

_It's nightfall when they return to the keep . . . ._

_#_

Bishop was leaning against the gate to the keep when they returned. He was wearing the still blood stained trews and slashed tunic from earlier. The blood was dried to a dark violet rust color. His arms were crossed and he had a snarky smirk on his handsome face. Maeve was as blood stained, but not as much as Casavir, who carried Collum's limp body. Casavir didn't even have the energy to scowl at Bishop as he walked past. He continued on towards the temple without a word.

Maeve debated following him for a moment, but thought better of it. She was in no mood for more weeping and wailing.

Bishop reached out and pulled her against him.

"You're late," he said, kissing her.

"We are so screwed," she muttered.

"It's just a dead dwarf," Bishop replied. "What's the problem?"

"They're going to try to retake Highcliff, and they are going to fail. And once they do, there'll be nothing left between the shadow army and Crossroad Keep. Not that I really care what happens to this pile of stones, but I would prefer they didn't try to remove the shard."

"I'm not sure I'd like that either," Bishop said. "I'm not much for necrophilia."

"It's not funny Bishop," Maeve sighed.

"I know," he replied. "But you already said there's nothing you can do about it. Except change sides of course."

"Oh that'll work," she muttered. "I can just bend over for Garius to fuck me before he cuts the shard out. Fun."

"Well then, aren't you a little ray of sunshine," Bishop grinned.

"Nevalle's already on his way to meet up with Nasher and the rest of the army. I guess we'll just have to wait," Maeve sighed. "And I hate waiting."

"We'll have to find something to entertain ourselves then," Bishop said. He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her tightly against him. He slipped his leg between hers and pressed his thigh into the v between her legs.

"Can we at least find somewhere a bit more comfortable?" she said, rubbing up against him.

"No," he said, biting her neck. "Right here."

Maeve laughed, gesturing over to the pair of greycloaks standing on either side of the door. "So necrophilia is out, but exhibitionism is fine, is it?"

"Let them watch," Bishop muttered. "Let the paladin watch, let them all fucking watch." He started to fumble with the straps on her armor. Frustrated, he pulled his dagger and sliced through the leather straps. The copper plates clattered to the ground. He pulled the padding she wore under her armor aside, and slid his hand down the front of her leggings feverishly.

"Damn it Bishop, not here," Maeve panted, her head thrown back. She managed to wrestle away from him. He stared at her with angry eyes.

"What, too good to let them know you're mine? Too good for me ladyship?" Bishop spat.

Maeve shook her head.

"Are you kidding me?" she sighed, taking his hand. "I don't care if all of Faerun knows."

"Good, then you won't mind this," he growled. He grabbed her roughly and spun her around. He pushed her leggings down and his own. With a rough thrust, he rammed himself inside of her in full view of the two, now incredibly flustered, greycloaks. He wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed.

"I could kill you right here, right now," he whispered, "Right in front of these useless guards, with my cock in you. And then leave you face down in the dirt."

Maeve tried to reply, but Bishop's grip on her throat just tightened. She could barely breathe, and certainly didn't have enough air to speak. Bishop thrust himself into her again, harshly.

"Then there'd be no more debts, no more bullshit," he said. His moved inside of her roughly, jarring her. He spoke again, his words a harsh cadence. "I didn't . . . want this . . . I always said . . . I'd never . . . let this . . . happen . . . ."

He pulled away suddenly, pulling his trews back up, leaving her standing there, the night air cold against her bare skin. Maeve yanked her leggings up and spun around to face him. Bishop glared at her. "I hate you. You should have let me die," he muttered.

"I regret it already," she said. "I can't believe I thought you really meant what you said before. Love, bah, what the hells would you know about love?"

"More than you, all you're good for is this," he said, grabbing his crotch crudely.

Her hand struck like a snake, slapping him across the face. He grabbed her wrist, his grip painfully tight. Maeve could feel the small bones in her arm grinding against each other.

"So that's how you want to play?" he hissed at her, raising his free hand. There was the sound of swords being drawn. The greycloak guards both stepped forward.

"We won't let you hurt her, what you did before, that's her business, but don't even think about it," the older of the two said. The man's face was grim. Bishop dropped his hand and let go of Maeve's wrist, glaring at the man.

"Fine," Bishop spat. "You can die."

"No, stop it," Maeve said, her voice a croak. "Greycloaks, stand down."

"Knight Captain?" the guard asked.

"Get out of here," she shouted at them and they stared at her blankly. "That's a fucking ORDER!" Hurriedly, the two men sheathed their swords and ran off.

Maeve turned back to Bishop. Every line of his body was tense, his eyes were fever bright, and yet his erection still stood out plainly through the thin fabric of his trews. She wanted desperately to touch him; his anger, and hers, were like an aphrodisiac. Bishop opened his mouth to speak, but Maeve spoke first.

"No, not another word," she said. "Look, I don't know what the hells is going on in your head. But I won't ask anything of you, because then you can't disappoint me."

Bishop continued to glare at her, but his shoulders seemed to drop. Just a bit.

"It's simple really, I want you. And you want me," she continued. "No need to make things any more complicated. And despite the fact that I know its already complicated, I still want you. I must be completely insane, but I still want you, right now, to finish what you started."

"The fucking or the strangulation?" he said between clenched teeth.

"One or the other," she replied. She held her hand out.

Bishop stared at it like it was poisonous.

"Please," she begged.

"Ah," Bishop said softly. "There's that begging I wanted."

Maeve growled, but left her hand out. He took it and let her lead him back into the castle.


	5. Stones, Walls and Hearts

_So I have to apologize again for Maeve's treatment of poor, ever suffering Casavir. It took me forever to write this because it hurt my feelings. _

_Again, OC and NPCs aren't mine. Which hurts my feelings too._

_Chapter 5: Stones; Walls and Hearts_

Maeve couldn't sleep. She couldn't tell if it was because she was expecting at any minute to have the door flung open and being told Highcliff was gone and Nasher was dead, or if it was because there was someone else in her bed. Not that she'd never shared her bed before; only weeks before, she'd shared Casavir's bed and many before had spent the night with her, but never Bishop. He had always slipped out once he caught his breath. Not tonight. He was laying right next to her, face to face.

Maeve opened her eyes. With her darkvision, the whole room had a silver blue glow, as if the moon was full. It wasn't, not yet, but she could see all the same. Bishop's eyes were open and he was staring into the darkness. It was obvious that he couldn't see her. She studied him now that he was unguarded. His whole face was soft. His mouth was pulled down into a frown. Were his eyes damp? It was hard to say. It seem like for the first time, she was actually seeing him. Not just a mask of anger or sarcasm, but the real Bishop. His eyes looked hollow. Hunted.

"Bishop?" she whispered. The soft look on his face hardened suddenly. The moment was over.

"Yeah?" he replied.

"So why aren't you asleep?" she asked.

"Same reason as you, I bet," he replied.

"And why's that?" she said, smirking.

"Why don't you tell me," he snapped.

Maeve sighed. "So I need to say it?" Bishop said nothing.

"And what am I supposed to say?" she said.

"Well," he said. "I know its not in your nature, but how about the truth?"

Maeve took a deep breath. He was right, it wasn't in her to be honest, unless it was a different kind of lie, like she used with Casavir. There was a part of her that wanted to just keep on lying. She knew the truth was worse than any lie. But the truth was already spoken, even in their earlier sarcastic exchange, they'd both admitted it.

"I didn't want this," she said finally. "When I walked out of the Temple of Sune, I decided I wasn't going to let entanglements . . . I didn't want to yield any more. And there's no way to do this without at least some of that."

"I don't want it either," Bishop said.

"Is there something wrong with us?" Maeve asked him.

"Obviously," he replied. "I thought that was pretty clear."

"I thought most people went around hoping for . . . for whatever the hells this is."

"Can't you even say it?" Bishop asked. He clenched his jaw. Maeve reached over and gently traced the line of his jaw, feeling the tension of the muscle. She stared at him. In the glow of her darkvision, he looked different. Younger, almost gentle. But maybe that was just the darkness, or wishful thinking.

"I don't know," she replied.

Bishop sighed. "I should have never said anything. I could have avoided this, and getting stabbed by the paladin."

"I think . . . I think I'm glad you did," Maeve managed to blurt out. "Say something, that is, not get stabbed. Of course, if Casavir hadn't, you probably would have never told me."

"Keep that in mind," he growled.

"Look, Bishop, I don't know how to deal with this. As much as I'm probably going to regret this, I think I _have_ to say it. Not sarcastic, but for real. I think that's the only way we're going to be able to get on with this. Besides, I have a feeling things are going to get real ugly, real soon. And then it's probably going to be too late to say anything." Maeve took a deep breath. She had a strange feeling in her chest, like there was too much stuff in there. Like at any moment the shard might come flying out of her chest and take her heart with it.

"Bishop," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I love you."

Bishop's eyes closed and he too took a deep, shaky breath.

"Hells Maeve," he said softly, "As much as I think we're both going to regret this, I love you too."

They kept silent for a long time after that, except for the sounds of their breathing. Bishop held her hand against his face, but made no other move to touch her. Finally he spoke.

"War is going to hit this place hard, and soon," he said. "What I'm saying is. . . just you and me, I can lead us out of here, no one else has to know."

"You know I can't do that," Maeve said. "Even if I did, they'd come after me, they'd find me. There's no running away from this."

"I was afraid you were going to say that. But eventually, you are going to run up against something bigger and scarier than you are. And I think that day is coming fast."

"I know," she sighed. "Any chance we could try to forget about that for a while?"

#

It took two days before Nasher came to Crossroad Keep on a stretcher. Two days of a strange, quiet peace. Maeve and Bishop avoided the world for two days, living like normal people. No violence, no paladin interruptions. Just two people in a room, trying to figure out was the hells to do with each other, besides the obvious of course. They did plenty of that too, but more surprising to them both, they talked to each other. Actually talked. Maeve was surprised to see so much of herself mirrored in Bishop. Why he hated orders, why he didn't want to get tied down . . . she felt those things too. But he still wouldn't talk about the burns. And she didn't ask.

Nevalle and a few other bedraggled looking greycloaks brought Nasher inside. Maeve did her best to heal him; Casavir removed the disease the undead taint had set on him, but despite that, Nasher was still weak and in no condition to be of any help. He did say they needed to make a plan, and quickly, to defend the Keep, because in just a few days, the undead army would be at their gates.

Maeve gathered everyone into the war room. They all sat around the table, except Bishop who leaned against the wall in a shadowy corner. Kana gave report on the status of the forces, the likely use of siege engines, all the time avoiding the fact that they had no chance in the Hells of actually managing to pull this off.

"We all know that whoever controls the bridges, controls the way to the Keep. We can't just stand around here waiting for them to walk up and smash us," Bishop interjected.

"Bishop is right," Casavir replied. "We must act." Maeve wondered for a moment if she'd heard that right. Did Casavir just _agree_ with Bishop?

Bishop just grinned maniacally.

"So how do we destroy them?" Maeve asked.

"I'll do it," Qara said. "I'm a sorceress, one good fireball, and it's all over."

"The bridges are _stone_ you idiot girl. But it we want to burn down what's left of the Keep when this is over, we know where to find you," Sand spat at her.

Maeve rolled her eyes. She was glad she'd managed to fairly well ignore the two of them up to this point. Sand was a lousy lawyer, and Qara was a spoiled bitch. They were both fully useless as far as she was concerned.

"Ooo, I know!" Grobnar piped up, "Blast globes!"

"Wait, you mean like those things we used to blow our way through the rock slide back at Old Owl Well?" Maeve asked.

"Yes, yes! And I could make some right away!" Grobnar burbled happily.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," Maeve said, " But that's a brilliant idea. Kana, give him whatever he needs and call me once he's done."

Grobnar looked so happy she thought his head might explode.

"Of course Knight Captain," Kana replied curtly. "But we must also decide who you will take with you. I can only send a token force with you, and we'll send some archers ahead, but you will want to take at least two of your companions with you."

"Oh yeah, I suppose. I guess Casavir should come, lots of undead," Maeve said.

"I am honored," Casavir said. She looked over at him, and not surprisingly, he was giving her that _look_ again.

"Don't be, I just need you to deal with the undead," Maeve snapped. "I can't get them all myself."

"As stupid as this is," Bishop said quietly from the shadows, "I'm going too."

"Well, then, won't this be a lovely outing?" Maeve sighed.

#

"That went surprisingly well," Maeve said to Bishop as they crested the hill at the base of farm fields.

Bishop looked over at her. His face was flushed from exertion still, and his hair was even more disheveled than usual. Maeve's breath caught in her throat at his smile. It was real smile, not one of his usual smirks. For a moment, she forgot to breathe.

"It is a victory, albeit a temporary one," Casavir said.

"Eh," Bishop snorted. "They'll be breaking open the kegs for this one. Let's go, I'm thirsty."

Once they made it through the gates, Bishop slipped away to the Tail, but Maeve couldn't follow. Kana practically dragged her up the hill, with her questions about the undead army. Maeve grimly told her about the new skills Garius had, and how he could make even the weakest of his foot soldiers into deadly weapons. After what seemed like forever, Kana finally let her go. Maybe it was all the yawning, Maeve wasn't sure, but she was glad when Kana retreated. Maeve debated removing her armor before heading down to the Tail, but before she had a chance, Casavir was right next to her.

"I need to talk to you," Casavir said, staring at her. His face was white as a sheet.

"Go ahead," she replied, swallowing. Her throat was dry; she needed a drink and hoped he'd get on with it.

"Not here, perhaps on the castle walls? Where we won't be disturbed?" he asked.

"Fine," she said. "Let me get out of my armor. I'll meet you up there shortly." She could hear Casavir sigh at the delay, but she ignored him. Granted, the armor was pretty useful, but she hated to wear it any more than she had to. Once in her suite, she removed the plates piece by piece and set them on the floor. Stretching, she looked at herself in the mirror. The last months of hard labor showed. She was thinner, harder. She studied her face. Lines crossed her forehead and there were circles under her eyes.

"Ah fuck," she muttered. "I'm getting too old for this crap." She sighed and slipped her customary grey robe over her head. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment and rested her face in her hands. All those tales, she thought, those heroic tales of beautiful young women and men and their grand adventures. She'd always wanted to be one, when she was back in West Harbor. But now she just felt old. She realized she had gotten older. Her birthday had passed just weeks before and she hadn't even given it a thought.

Standing up, she brushed the wrinkles out of her robe and headed back outside. She had a sneaking feeling Casavir was going to come looking for her if she didn't show up, and the sooner she got this over with, the better.

Casavir was standing staring out over the fields, his hands resting on the stone battlements. She watched him for a moment. He was a good looking man, and a decent one. For a long time she'd dreamed about a man like that. A 'Knight in Shining Armor' who could rescue her from herself. But she knew that wasn't what she wanted any more -- the thought made her shiver a bit. Life with a man like that would be like being a bird in a gilded cage.

She cleared her throat. Casavir didn't turn around, but spoke softly.

"There is death in the air this night," he said.

"Yeah, I noticed," she said. He turned to face her, and took her hands. She stared at him incredulously, but didn't pull away.

"But I am here with you. Even thought it is dark, you shine brightly to me," he sighed. _Shadow and fucking hells,_ she thought. _Here it comes._

"There is nothing that can stand against us when we are together," he continued. "My sword, and my heart, are yours. I love you Maeve, with everything that I am."

_Fuck, _Maeve thought. _This is exactly NOT what I need right now._

"Casavir . . . ," she started, and then a wicked thought crept into her head. "Prove your loyalty to me, cut yourself. Bleed for me."

He blanched even more, but silently removed a knife from his belt. With a grimace, he drew the blade against the palm of his hand. A drop of blood fell on to the stones. Maeve stared at it for a moment; it looked like a garnet or a ruby against the pale grey stones.

"There," Casavir said grimly. "It is done. I would do anything for you."

Something in Maeve snapped. And not in a good way.

"And that," she spat at him, "Is exactly why I could never love you. You have no will of your own. You're just a pawn to your own stupid desire to be good, and to save the world. If I wanted a dog, I'd get one. I don't want one in my bed."

Casavir looked for all the world like she had kicked him between the legs.

"Now, if you're done with this tearful stupidity, get the hells out of here," she said.

"Then my feelings for you," he whimpered, "They were all in vain."

"YES!" she shouted at him. "How much more obvious do I have to make it?"

A single tear slid down his face. He clenched his jaw and spun on his heel. He stomped away, his armor clanging. She watched him go, surprised at the tiny pang of guilt she felt.

"Hells, hells, and more hells," Maeve muttered. "I think I took that a little too far." She considered for a moment calling out to him. But then thought better of it. She'd tried, hells, she tried more than she'd tried with anyone before, to let him down easy. A hundred times before she'd warned him. She'd warned the stupid paladin that he was too good for her, that her temper wasn't something he wanted to test. That she didn't love him. But he'd gone and chased her anyway. If his heart was broken now? Well, that was his own fault.

It still hurt though, just a little bit. He really was a good man after all, and even her black heart knew it.

"Stupid," she whispered. She wasn't sure if she was still talking about Casavir or if she meant herself.

"Nice work," Bishop said, appearing out of the shadows. "The paladin looked like a kicked dog. Ran all the way to the temple with his tail between his legs."

"How long have you been there?" she asked.

"Long enough," he replied curtly.

"What, did you think I was going to proclaim my undying love to him or something?" Maeve asked, angry. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"No," Bishop said. "Just a woman. And I've not had much luck with them before."

"Well, I'm not like most women," she replied. "I thought you would have figured that out by now."

Bishop snorted, it was almost a laugh, but not quite. "You'd think, but I am pretty stupid. I mean, I'm still here aren't I -- when I really should just get out of here?"

"You should," she said. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but you should. I don't want you to have to die with the rest of us. And I certainly don't want you to die for me."

"Don't worry ladyship, I won't," he said taking a step towards her. Suddenly, he was right against her. Too close. She could smell the ale on his breath and the tang of his sweat.

"Is there something you want?" she whispered. She didn't mean to whisper, but Bishop's nearness made it hard to breathe. She wondered at that. She'd already had him, repeatedly. She knew the taste of his skin, she knew the feeling of his body, and yet he still made her feel like she was losing her mind. She might have cut herself for him if he asked, like Casavir had done for her. It was madness, she knew it, but she couldn't help herself.

"Oh yes," he purred, and kissed her. Maeve grabbed at him, letting him crush her against his chest. The whole world dropped away; the coming battle, the shard, everything melted under his touch. He kissed his way down her neck, one hand around her waist, the other reaching to cup her breast.

"Do you want me, right now, with no regrets?" he said against her neck.

"I doubt anything about you and me is going to be without regrets," she said, panting. "But I want you Bishop."

At her words, he pulled her to the ground. He tore at her clothes and his own, hiking her robes around her waist. With a groan, he pushed himself inside of her, and then lay still. He buried his face in her hair.

"Oh Maeve," he said. He said her name again and again. It was sweet to hear him say it.

"Bishop," she said, realizing there were tears running down her face. "I love you."

"Hells," he panted as he started to move slowly, sliding in and out, each thrust harder, as if he was trying to get even closer than he already was. "I love you, and I hate myself for it. But gods, I love you and I've never loved anything before, not even myself."


	6. Betrayer

_Still rated M for lots and lots of violence. It's not a long chapter, and it doesn't really contain anything new. But it's a necessary evil (it's a pun!) to get to really fun unpleasant stuff to come._

_Again, Obsidian owns the good stuff. The garbage is all mine._

#

_Chapter 6: Betrayer_

_"Bishop! No!"_

_"For what it's worth," Bishop said. "You almost made me stick around. Almost. And remember, the door is always open to the winning side."_

With those few words, Bishop loped out of the now unless gate and disappeared into the throng of undead. Maeve felt an anger like nothing she'd ever felt before well up in her. But Garius's magic had her flat on her back and if it hadn't been for Ammon managing to spit out the garbled ramblings of the True Name scroll, the Nightwalker that Garius had summoned would have smashed her flat. As it was, she was just wishing it had.

Aldanon had managed to decipher the Tome and he was getting ready to send them into the Vale of Merdelain. Which everyone, except Sand, seemed to think was a brilliant idea. Maeve wanted to throw up.

She sat in the war room, alone, dressed in full armor. The Sword of Gith was balanced across her knees. She stared at the liquid shine of the jagged blade, noting how the copper of her armor was reflected in its length. Her hair shadowed her face as she turned the sword over and over again, watching the patterns of color, light and shadow on the blade.

Bishop's betrayal hadn't been a shock, not if she really took the time to think about it. He'd been trying to tell her that he was leaving. But she didn't hear that. He told her he was leaving every time her told her that he loved her. She _knew_ it from the moment he'd first said 'I love you' that he was going to be gone before she even got used to the idea. That was the way things worked. She hadn't let any one really get close to her before, not beyond the physical anyway, for exactly that reason.

But she wasn't wishing things were different. It was what it was. There was no point in feeling anything about it.

She heard footsteps come to the door and stop. She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping that whoever was on the other side of that door would have enough brains to turn around and walk away. She really wanted to stab someone.

There was a soft knock on the door. Then another. And finally, a voice.

"My lady?"

"What?" she spat, recognizing Casavir's voice immediately.

"May I speak with you?" he said, slowly opening the door. Maeve's grip tightened on the hilt of the sword and she lifted her eyes, but not her head, to glare at him through the curtain of her hair.

"Do I _really_ have a choice?" she growled. Casavir crossed the room in only a few steps and knelt down in front of her.

"No," he said softly. "For I must speak with you before it is too late."

"I think everything has already been said between us," she replied, looking away from him and back at the sword.

"It has not," he said. He reached out his hand and set it on her knee. She growled deep in her throat and looked back at him, her eyes flashing.

"If you would like to keep your fingers attached to your hand, I would suggest you get them away from me," she snarled. Casavir didn't move.

"Lady, I cannot let you go into the Vale with this much blackness and pain in your heart," he whispered. Maeve flew to her feet, just barely missing Casavir's head as she swung the sword in an arc around her. She held the sword in both hands, ready to strike.

"There is nothing you could say that could have any effect of the _blackness _in my heart or in my soul. I am blackness, and there is nothing else," she said. "Now get out, or I swear to Beshaba I will kill you. Right here, right now," she said. Her voice echoed. She continued. "If you wish to follow me to the Vale, that is your choice. It makes no difference to me. But I truly mean it when I say I will kill you."

"I do not believe you," he said as he stood. Despite his words, he took a step back and rested the palm of his hand on the hilt of the hammer hanging on his belt. "I am coming with you, for I know you will do what needs to be done and destroy the King of Shadows. And you will need my help and my . . . ." He paused.

"Your what?"

"My _love_. You will need my love to survive this," he said.

"I do not need your help or your bullshit love, or anyone's," she replied. "I never have."

"But it seems you needed Bishop's love," he said, foolishly stepping towards her. In a flash of molten silver, Maeve swung the sword at him, the silver blade stopping only in time to press against the flesh of his neck instead of severing his head as it could have easily done. Casavir gasped, but didn't move. He seemed frozen in place.

"You know nothing," she whispered, leaning in towards him. "Nothing about me or him. Don't you even speak his name." As suddenly as she had moved towards him, she stepped back, letting her arm drop to her side, resting the point of her blade against the floor. "Now get out."

Casavir fled.

With relief, Maeve sank back down into the chair. She set the sword back across her knees and hated it. She hated the sword, she hated Casavir. She hated Ammon and Nasher and the whole gods damned Sword Coast. She hated the cold hardness of her armor and she hated the merry crackling sound the fire was making in the hearth. And mostly, she hated herself.

Because try as she might, she just couldn't bring herself to hate Bishop, even though he deserved her hatred more than anyone or anything in all of Faerun.

#

Garius stood gloating in front of her. Neeshka stood next to him, and Sand too. Maeve could not wait to watch them die.

"Bishop," Casavir growled.

"My debt to you is over Maeve, and the truth is, I'm a little sorry about it. I thought it would be easy to hate you, just like I hated Duncan. But I don't, at all," Bishop said, appearing from the shadows.

Maeve's heart was in her throat. Even now, she couldn't hate him. She watched him stride across the room, admiring his cat like grace, his silent footsteps. He smiled at her, and it was a sad, heart wrenching thing.

"Can you at least tell me why? The real truth?" Maeve asked.

"Oh go ahead Bishop," Garius purred. "We have the time."

And he did. He told the story so vividly Maeve could almost see it. The circling fires around Red Fallow's Watch, the horror and the peace of knowing that all the bullshit and pain of a wasted life was finally going to end. Bishop spoke of chains. Maeve knew those chains well. And that was that. Bishop couldn't forgive Duncan for not allowing the pain to end. And Maeve, well, she was just more pain. And she knew it.

"So instead," she said, finally managing to speak. "So instead of doing what you really want, you trade one master for another?"

Bishop growled. "I'm done listening to you, Knight Captain." He said Maeve's unwanted title with the same venom as he used the word _paladin._ Maeve shuttered.

"I think we've heard enough from you ranger," Garius interrupted.

"Oh have you?" Bishop snarled. "Well then. I think you can fight the Captain here by yourself."

"If you leave here, I will find you when I am done," Garius threatened. "You will die if you leave."

"You're going to die if you stay," Bishop said, laughing a cold bitter laugh, as he disappeared back into the shadows.

And then the hells broke loose.

#

"I know why you have come here," the King of Shadow chanted sd he appeared out of the shimmering portal, his voice echoing in Maeve's head. "Ambition and evil has brought you here. But you do not have to die, you do not have to be cleansed."

"Oh really," Maeve said, trying to catch her breath.

"You can throw off this false life and survive," the giant shadow continued. "I can see into your mortal heart, and I know that these who have followed you are only tools."

"No more of your lies," the foul gith said. "Know that no matter what she has done before, the kalaka-cha stands against you now, as it was meant to be. Your lies fall on deaf ears."

"But what if it's not a lie?" Maeve growled.

"Then throw off these tools, " The King of Shadows intoned. "And join me."

"What would you have me do?"

"Slay these fools who have followed you," he told her. Maeve turned slowly, deliberately, to look at the ones who had been foolish enough to follow her. The gith and her riddles; Jerro and his arrogance; Khelgar and his pride; childish, selfish Qara; the irritating and naive gnome; and worst of all, Casavir and his _love. _

"I have known the truth of you for some time," Casavir said. "And perhaps I have done evil by following you, by allowing myself to feel so strongly for one so evil."

"It does not matter," Ammon snarled at him. "It never did. All that matters is destroying the King of Shadows."

"So our leader becomes a reflection of you Jerro," Casavir spat. "It is no wonder you would welcome it."

"Enough," the King of Shadow said, his voice tearing the breath from Maeve's lungs. "Kill these fools, or die with them."

Maeve's eyes glittered.

"Do not do this," Casavir said, a hint of panic creeping into his voice. "Do not even think of doing this."

Maeve slowly turned back to the King of Shadows. The giant blackness loomed over her. His form wavered. But in his hideous face, Maeve saw scoured and blatant truth. Goodness was the lie, only in evil and shadows would there be any respite from the pain she'd known all her life. The darkness was seductive.

"I'll do it," she whispered.

"I should have known I put too much trust in you!" Ammon shrieked. "Now you will die with him!"

"Watch how you talk to her." Maeve spun around to see Bishop appear from the shadows. His face was gleeful. "I'm surprised its taken you this long to get rid of these foolish companions. I will fight with you," he said as he reached her side. "But let me kill the paladin. I owe him one."

Maeve smiled, her face as cold as ice. "He's all yours." Bishop winked at her. In one swift motion, he knocked an arrow and let it fly. Before Casavir could even think to defend himself, the arrow pierced his neck where his armor left him exposed. He stood for a moment, stunned. Then he collapsed to his knees in a puddle of blood.

With a roar, Maeve rushed at them, those fools who'd followed her blindly and now were about to learn what true evil was. And they thought the King of Shadows was scary.


	7. Embraced by Shadow

_Chapter 7: Embraced by Shadow_

Illefarn reborn. In blood and horror much of the Sword coast fell into shadow. At the head of the undead army a pair of generals, they say, led the blackness in wave upon wave across the once green and fertile land. It was graveyard now.

And then they stopped. At the ancient borders of Illefarn, the shadow army halted, content with the knowledge that all that was once theirs belonged to them again. The King of Shadows had no desire for conquest, only to regain what was lost. And now, once again, Illefarn was whole.

Whole again, in death. That was the way of Illefarn now.

The King of Shadow held his two great generals in great esteem, which meant he did not kill them. He gifted them with the keep they had once fought against him at. A bitter irony it was when the generals returned to Crossroad Keep with the blood of thousands still drying on their blades.

Even the Sword of Gith was still theirs. Although it was the only weapon that could harm their new master, he had no fear of them. They were his, total and complete.

Even those who'd dared stand against him to their last breath, they were his now as well. And those few that had dared to come for him as he emerged from the portal, those too he gave to his victorious slaves.

Even Maeve was tired of death by the time she finally returned to the keep. Bishop too was beyond words. Behind them, a mockery of all they'd held dear in life, her once loyal companions followed, only shadows of what they had been. The King of Shadows, her master now, had brought her companions back from the dead before their bodies had even begun to cool on the floor of the temple ruins. They fought at Maeve's back, mindless minions to her every whim.

Zhjaeve, Khelgar, Ammon Jerro, Qara, Grobnar and Casavir. Such a party they made, puppets of flesh.

Once the fighting was over and they'd come back to the keep, it was all Maeve could do to drag herself to her bed to sleep. It was not that kind sleep, deep and dreamless, but the wretched sleep of exhaustion and nightmares. After night, upon restless night of fighting and bloodshed, she slept. And then, in the half dawn that was as bright as the day could ever be in this land of shadows, she woke.

She sat up and looked around the room. It was the same room she'd slept in as the Captain of Crossroad Keep. But now, the rich colors were muted, grey. Only her bright hair still held its brilliance. It set her apart from the room like a red rose petal in a pool of milk. That suited her just fine.

She grinned. It was the sort of smile that would send a good man running for the hills. But luckily, there weren't any good men here. Only Bishop, who was not, in any way, a good man. He sat at the desk, his long legs crossed at the ankles, quietly putting black feathers onto Duskwood arrows. He was only wearing grey trews with laces in the front, untied. If he moved from his slung back posture in the chair, gravity would likely win the battle against propriety.

"Welcome back to the living," he sneered. Maeve looked over at him. He was the same; shockingly the same as he'd always been. Uncombed hair, day old stubble, wicked amber eyes and even more wicked grin.

"I'm not sure," she said, her voice soft from disuse, "If I should kiss you or kill you."

"Either one is fine," he replied, the corner of his mouth pulling up. Maeve swung her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the fact that she was completely undressed. Her legs felt a bit shaky, but she wasn't sure it that was from too much sleep of too much half dressed ranger.

"Well," Bishop purred, dropping his arrow on the floor next to the chair. "That's a good look for you."

"Is it now?" she asked, stretching languidly, surprised by the complete lack of stiffness and pain.

"You only look better when you're killing someone," he smirked. She crossed to him in a few steps and slung her leg across his lap, straddling him. Bishop slid his hands up to the small of her back. He stared at her, a strange, quizzical expression on his face.

"So, we survived," Maeve said softly. "Now what do we do?"

Bishop chuckled. "I can think of a few things."

"I don't doubt that," Maeve replied. "But what you're thinking won't keep us occupied forever. What are we going to do with this new life we've gotten ourselves into?"

"Let's worry about _that_ later," Bishop sighed. He leaned forward as he spoke and his breath was hot against her skin. Maeve sighed and closed her eyes. Bishop's teeth found her collarbone and he bit her on the delicate skin there, hard enough to draw blood.

Maeve drew in a sharp breath between her clenched teeth and looked at him with fire in her eyes. Bishop licked his lips and grinned. She could feel his arousal at the violence. He throbbed beneath her as he tasted her blood.

"I _hate _you Bishop," Maeve growled at him.

"Ah," he sighed. "I see that." He grabbed her roughly and thrust up against her. Maeve could feel herself responding to him.

"If you were any other man," she spat.

"But I'm not," he said. In an uncharacteristic gesture, he gently tucked a curl of her hair behind her ear. "And you don't hate me," he continued. "Not yet anyway."

"You seem pretty sure of that," Maeve said.

"Well, you've already soaked through my trews, and that's not a normal reaction to someone you hate," Bishop replied.

Once, Maeve might have blushed at his words. But those times were long gone. She stared at him. He was a traitor, despite fighting beside her all these past months as Neverwinter fell. He was liar, a thief and a murderer.

And he was exactly what she wanted.

She ran her hands slowly up his arms, feeling the lean muscles under his slightly sweat damp skin. Moving her hands back up, she reached up and cupped his face between her hands. She licked her lips and he stared up at her expectantly.

"What in the hells am I going to do with you?" she sighed. She brushed her lips across his softly and pulled back to look at him. His eyes were closed.

Maeve knew, with no uncertainty, that someday Bishop would be the end of her, one way or the other. But who else who have come with her, such as she'd become? He was still here, without a gaes, without orders, without anything but . . . but what?

"Bishop?"

"Hm?" he replied, his eyes still closed.

"Why are you here?" Maeve asked. He opened his eyes and frowned at her. She continued. "And for Beshaba's sake, the truth, not some bullshit answer."

Bishop sighed, still frowning. "The truth and I don't have a good relationship."

"I'm aware," she said.

"Don't ask me for things I can't do," he said.

"Like what?"

"Like honesty, like trust, like _love_ . . . I don't know what to do with that."

"Have you looked around?" she asked incredulously. "Have you noticed were we are? We're in the damned Hells on Faerun, the only truly living things that can survive beyond the Shadowline. I'm not expecting you suddenly become a paladin. If you've forgotten, I had a paladin and I let you shoot him in the throat."

"Even so," he said. "Even with you . . . I don't know." He looked away.

"Damn it," Maeve said, easing herself off his lap. She stalked over the bed and sat down. "Is it so fucking hard to talk to me?"

"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to feed you some line?"

"No, I think we're past that, aren't we?" she asked. "I'm not interested in honeyed words and bullshit, Bishop. I'm interested in knowing how long its going to be before you stop stabbing me with your cock and pick a less friendly weapon."

"Not for a while, I think," he replied, standing up and crossing the room to stand in front of her, his trews hanging dangerously low on his hips.

"Or not if I kill you first," she said.

"There's that," he said, smirking. "Look, you want the truth? Truth is, you've given me a taste of power. I don't have to be a dog here, and as good as I am at it, I don't need to hide what I am, and who I am with you. I was so fucking tired of having the Luskan threat hanging over my head, and now it's gone. Wiped off the face of Faerun. And now? Who knows? But I can think of a lot of fun tortures for those puppets that we've got now, and some even better torture for you."

"Oh, can you?" Maeve replied.

"I can," he said, his voice husky. "And even though I know you could kill me, you let me torture you. I like that in a woman."

"That's better," she said. "I like to know where I stand."

"I'd rather you kneel," Bishop said, pushing his trews down, and tangling his fingers in her hair, pushing her head towards him.

She resisted for a moment, looking up at him.

"So that's it then?" she asked.

"For now anyway," he said. "But if it makes you feel any better, I do feel . . . . well, I can't say it's love in the rest of the world, but it's as close as I can get."

"I think that makes me feel worse," she replied. "I saw what happened before. You ran away, after betraying me, of course."

"Eh," he grunted. "Things change."

"I doubt that," she replied. "But honestly, I don't care. As long as you love me now, whatever that is for people like us, it's good enough for me."

"Just shut up already," he said. "There are better things you can do with your mouth."

With a grin like a starving beast, she did.


	8. Puppet

_Chapter 8: Puppet_

Maeve sat on her throne. She wore a black gown, silk, that cleaved to her like a glove. Her copper hair was a wild froth around her face and her pale cheeks were flushed. _Her throne,_ she thought to herself. It made her laugh on the inside to think of it that way. The big chair, carved with wild beasts and gilded with gold, had always sat at the head of the main hall of the Keep, even back before shadow fell. But then, Maeve never used it. Now was another matter.

Power does strange things to people.

At her bare feet, a pair of puppets sat. That's what she liked to call them anyway. Casavir and Ammon Jerro. They made such lovely playthings. Both men were pale as death; Jerro's tattoos had ceased glowing. They both stared at her blankly, but adoringly. She was their mistress, and they behaved as such. Maeve grinned wickedly.

Bishop was off doing whatever it was he did. Usually using Grobnar for arrow bait or abusing Qara in a more visceral way. Maeve let him do pretty much whatever he wanted. Not as if she could have stopped him anyway. She might have power here, such as it was, but she'd never tried to control Bishop. She had no desire to. Occasionally, she wondered what that meant, but she rarely let it bother her. He was still here, and that was all that mattered.

It had been a year since Illefarn was reborn. There was a strange sense of contentment now, if that's what the pattern of violence could be called. For a few months, she entertained herself with Daeghun. The shadows brought him to the Keep in pieces and Maeve resurrected him, only to kill him herself. Again and again his blood stained the floor. But eventually, that bored her, and she had him walled up into a pillar, petrified. His mouth hung open and when the wind would blow, his corpse whistled a little tune.

A rather jaunty one, she thought.

Even more joyous, for Maeve anyway, was the changes in herself. She missed her darkvision a bit, but the way Sune's face had faded from her back, _that_ was lovely. Whatever her celestial blood had given her faded away in this dark place. Just one more reason for Maeve to love her little patch of the hells on Faerun.

She smiled down at Casavir's handsome face, staring up at her. Her smile was a cold, cold thing indeed.

"Casavir, dear," she said softly.

"Yes, lady," he replied. His voice was wooden and without passion.

"I'm bored," she said. "Why don't you put some holes in Jerro to entertain me?"

"As you wish, lady," he said. Mechanically, he stood and grabbed Jerro by the throat, the warlock's head snapping backwards limply, pulling him to his feet. Casavir pulled a dagger from his belt, and did as Maeve asked. Put holes in Jerro, and then dropped him in a heap at her feet.

The puppets were already dead. But as long as one didn't damage them beyond repair, they'd heal eventually. Maeve and Bishop had tested how far they could go with the gith. As long as they kept their heart and their heads, the shadows would repair them. But the gith's head sat in a niche on the wall now.

Casavir stared at Maeve, Jerro's blood was splashed on his face; stained his hands. He made no move to wipe it away. Maeve thought it was rather a good look for him. She stood and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down towards her.

"Kiss me," she told him. And he did. Not meek and lovingly as he had when he was alive. She'd trained him well.

"Don't you ever get bored of him?" Bishop shouted as he flung the door open. He was dragging Grobnar by one leg behind him. The gnome looked like a pincushion, riddled with Bishop's favorite black feathered arrows. Maeve pushed Casavir away and stalked over to greet him. With a moan, she grabbed Bishop and kissed him fiercely.

"I get lonely when you're gone," she purred.

Bishop laughed mirthlessly. "Well then, it's a good thing I'm back."

Maeve smiled. A real smile. Bishop was the one thing that could do that to her. Despite the blood she'd spilled, the evils she'd done, he was the one thing that still made her a little bit human.

"I should ask you if you ever get bored with putting arrows into Grobnar," Maeve laughed.

"Nah," Bishop replied. "Some things are always entertaining."

"I can think of another thing or two," she said, reaching out to touch his face. Bishop brushed her hand away. Maeve looked at him quizzically.

"What's that about?" she asked.

"Eh," he grunted. "Some things lose their interest."

Maeve felt the blood rush to her face. "What are you saying?"

"Never mind me," he replied, turning away from her. "I'm tired."

"Since when are you ever too tired?"

Bishop growled. "Just let it go." He turned away, slipping out of her arm like they were a snare.

"Damn it," she said, grabbing his arm to turn him to face her, "What in the hells is wrong with you now?"

Bishop yanked his arm away. His eyes flashed with anger. "What the fuck do you think? I don't know how you stand it, trapped inside this gods damned stone tomb!"

"You mean this place where you're the master?" she spat at him. "Isn't this what you always wanted? Power and control?"

"No," he shouted back at her. "I never wanted _this_ sorry excuse for a life. All I ever wanted was to be fucking free. And I'm as much a slave as this sorry thing." He punctuated his sentence by kicking Grobnar's still form, hard. The gnome groaned.

"How can you say that?" Maeve said incredulously. "I've given you everything you wanted, I let you do anything you want."

"And why exactly do you do that?" he growled at her. "Except to keep me coming back for more. I've become a stray dog begging for scraps at the mistress's table. _You_ have the power here, and I only have the illusion of it, because you've given to me."

Maeve threw her hands up in the air. "What the fuck do you want from me? What else can I do? All I want is for you to be happy . . . . Cyric's Blood, Bishop. What the fuck did you think it meant when I told you I loved you?"

"Does it matter?" he said, defeated. "I'm trapped here as much as I was trapped by Duncan."

"Is that really how you see this? Just another trap, another debt?" Maeve asked.

Bishop shrugged. A painful silence followed. Maeve stared as him, unable to think of anything to say. In all her life, through all the seemingly never ending bullshit and pain, all she ever wanted was exactly what she thought she had, just minutes before. Power, control, and . . . well, Bishop. She'd learned to accept that, even if it was a chink in her armor.

"Please Bishop," she said finally. "Tell me what you want."

"Just leave me alone," he said, turning away from her.

"Fine," Maeve said, her voice unexpectedly catching in her throat. "Then go."

Bishop stared at her for a moment. He watched her carefully, like she might spring out and grab him, or make some plea to keep him there. Maeve could see it in his eyes. And as much as she wanted to say something to stop him, she bit her tongue.

With a snort, Bishop turned on his heel, swung his bow back over his shoulder and stalked away. She watched him go, a surprising twinge of pain in her chest. It felt like the shard lodged there was moving, and sharp as the sword, it had just sliced her heart in two.

She'd destroyed everything around her. Half the Sword Coast cloaked in shadows, her former companions slaves to her every whim and desire, thousands of innocent lives ended by her hand. It seemed suddenly that she'd now ruined herself for this foolish love. She willed it away, but the pain remained.

Ever fiber of her being wanted to run screaming out the door like a child. She wanted to throw herself at Bishop's feet. Beg him to stay. She could force him to stay, she knew. Every shadow and horror was at her beck and call. But the look in Bishop's eyes . . . the haunted, hunted look behind the anger, stopped her. As much as she wanted him, when she was really honest with herself, she realized she'd told him the truth. All she ever wanted was for him to be happy.

She let him go, and realized, to her horror, she'd done the first unselfish act of her entire life.


	9. The Guardian's Reward

_Chapter 9: The Guardian's Reward_

Maeve lay half sprawled across the floor at the foot of her throne. She was drunk. Stinking, painfully drunk. The front of her white nightgown was stained with blood and on the floor all around her lay the evidence of her earlier anger.

Laying next to a now empty bottle of wine, Casavir's severed head sat, staring blankly at the black stone of the walls.

He'd been the last of the puppets alive. The last to feel the brunt of Maeve's anger. If she'd been coherent enough to think, she'd realize she'd just done him a favor. With his body now permanently dead, his soul was free to pass on to its judgement. What that would be was hard to say, though. A paladin who walked in the footsteps of the most horrid villain to ever stand on the Sword Coast? Only Tyr could say if that was the sort of sin that could be forgiven.

At the moment, Maeve couldn't think of anything, except that she wished the floor would stop spinning. She rolled ungracefully on to her side to stare at the carnage. Earlier in her life, it might have had her sick. But now? And only one corpse, bloodied by her hand? It had little effect. Her fingers tightened reflexively around her dagger, and her eyes slid closed. Sleep stole over her before she took another breath.

"_I missed you," Maeve said._

_At her back, the sun was setting. Not in the murky green dusk of the world of shadow she'd come to know, but in brilliant shades of gold and orange. The sort that burned in the sky over West Harbor when she was a child._

"_Did you now?" Bishop replied, nonchalantly cleaning under his ragged nails with the tip of his dagger. He leaned against a boulder in the clearing. Maeve didn't recognize the place, but the general landscape was familiar. The Mere. As it used to be anyway. _

"_As much as I hate to admit it, yes," she said sheepishly. Bishop looked up at her and grinned, slipping his dagger back into it's sheath. _

"_I suppose you expect me to kiss you," he snickered._

"_That'd be a start." _

_Still grinning, Bishop stalked towards her, his amber eyes sparkling with that wonderful mischievous way he had. Emotion welled up in Maeve as she watched him walk towards her. It seemed like time had slowed. Each step was a dance; a symphony of lean muscle and sinews, the sun glimmering on his auburn hair, the way it made the bristle of stubble on his face look like a dusting of copper, the creak of his leather armor, the sound of his footsteps in the moist grass._

_Then suddenly he was beside her, his calloused fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. His lips, warm and soft, pressed against hers. With a supplicating moan, she fell against him, the solidity of his body like a refuge in a wild storm. Her eyes closed. The heat of him penetrated her to her core. He'd only touched her lips with his, but her whole body, her whole self was suddenly on fire. Maeve shuddered as an explosive climax spread from her center, turning her legs to water. Only the strength of Bishop's arms around her keep her from falling. Blood rushed to her face, and her head throbbed. It felt like her heart was in her head, so fierce was the pulsing._

_A wave of pain washed over her . . . . her head throbbed . . . _

She opened her eyes. The throbbing head was unfortunately quite real, but the feel of the stone jabbing into her side let her know immediately, that the rest of it was only a truly unfair dream. Another one. She muttered a healing spell and the pain in her head ceased.

Sitting up, she looked around expecting to see Casavir's limp form still on the floor. His body was gone. She glanced upwards and saw his head joining the others in the niches in the wall. The shadows had done what they did, again. She wondered for a moment if she actually had any control over them, or if it was just more of the King of Shadows doing. In recent months, she'd begun to realize how right Bishop was.

This place was tomb, and a debt. It was an obligation she'd earned, but could never pay back. She was a puppet too. The thought wasn't pleasant, and Maeve lashed out in the only way she knew. With violence.

Each niche in the wall held a head; a face left in a perpetual scream. But their souls were free now. Finally sober, Maeve began to realize that her anger had finally left her completely, and utterly alone.

Bland as they were, her puppets had some sort of life separate from the shadow. But now, only she remained with a heartbeat. It was a strange feeling. Maeve's throat burned, as if she'd just drank more of the liquor from the night before.

Alone.

Her eyes felt hot, but she willed herself not to show the weakness that was threatening. Despite the lack of living things, Maeve knew she was always being watched. Shadows hung in every corner, red eyes glinting out of the blackness. They were always there. Her servants, and her keepers.

She raised herself shakily to her feet, leaning hard against the cold stone pillar. Daeghun's stone face made a soft whistle. It no longer brought a smile to her face. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and looked up. Over the cold hearth of the fireplace, the Sword of Gith shone dully. When she didn't hold it, the glitter of magic it usually had went dormant.

Maeve gritted her teeth, and despite her healing spell, it was still rather painful. She hated that sword. The fucking sword. It was symbol of everything that had gone wrong. With a growl, she strode across the room and grabbed it fiercely by the hilt. The sword made a metallic singing noise and the blade lit up with a host of electric sparks.

She grabbed the blade with her other hand and squeezed. Blood trickled between her fingers. She swung around, the blade slicing through the air, drops of her blood flinging out in every direction.

"Come and get it, you fucking bastard," she spat into the empty air. "Come on, you shadowy fuck, it's all yours."

The air wavered like cobblestones on a too hot day. A pall of black, ethereal smoke drifted in like fast moving fog. Maeve's ears rang as all the sound was sucked out of the room. She hadn't realized there had been the gentle sound of wind through dry leaves and her own breathing in the quiet before until they suddenly disappeared.

The King of Shadow coalesced before her. His form was smaller than the one he'd taken before. He was only slightly larger than a man, but a dark, oppressive power flowed off of him in waves. It took everything Maeve had to keep her feet.

He didn't speak, just glared at her for a moment with his glowing, blood red gaze. Maeve sunk to her knees, her will giving out. She'd thought to destroy him, and herself in the process. But now she could only stare blankly at the floor blinking away the bitter tears of her failure. The sword was still in her grasp, the sparks of magic still lighting up the jagged edge of the blade, but its heart; Maeve's heart, was conquered.

"Just take it," she whimpered. "Just take the sword, tear the damned shard from my chest and let's be done with it."

The King of Shadows rumbled. The sound built like thunder and Maeve clamped her hands over her ears. Only then did she realize that he was laughing.

"Not many among the living would have managed as long as you have," he said finally, the bass of his voice reverberating off the walls. "You see now that you are no threat; there are none alive that could threaten me. I need fear you nor the Sword of Gith any longer. But the hatred of the shard and the sword have nearly completed their task on you."

"And what's that?" Maeve whispered, looking up into the black form.

"They have fed your hatred until they have destroyed what you are, and whatever you might have been. Perhaps it is time the Sword finds another master," he replied.

"Yes. Please," she muttered. "Kill me."

He laughed again, but less uproariously this time.

"No," he said. "There would be no justice in that. You have done what I asked of you, and I had only rewarded you as you desired. But not in this. I will take the sword and the shard from you, as well as . . . other things . . . and you are free to enter the world of the living."

"I don't deserve justice of any kind," she said between clenched teeth.

"No matter, for you shall have it regardless. I do wonder," he chuckled, "If you will recognize the woman you are once the shard is gone. How much poison has been leeched into you from all the hatred poured into it by its many previous masters? Again, it is no matter to me. You do not belong here, but nor are you an enemy of Illefarn. It is time you returned."

Before she could protest, and beg him to rid her of the burden of her life, she sank to the floor and the blade slipped from her grasp for the last time.

The Shadow leaned over her, kneeling down like a man might, rolling her gently on to her back. Silently, he beckoned for the shadows of Illefarn to come forth and tend to her. Their lives may have ended centuries before, but they still had much of the knowledge of their ancient empire. With their Guardian, they could tap into that ancient fount and do something no one still living on Faerun could.

Painlessly, they removed the shard from beside Maeve's heart and healed the would so even the scar she'd borne all her life disappeared. Gently, as if she was a child's doll, they dressed her and carried her through the darkness.

Maeve stirred and opened her eyes for a moment. Her mind registered that she was moving and she saw the shadows of trees moving passed her swiftly. But the air was changing. There was a warmth, and sweetness to the wind. And then sounds, chirps and whistles of crickets and night birds. Before she could even manage to be amazed, she sank back into oblivion.


	10. Given Back and Taken Away

_Chapter 10: Given Back and Taken Away_

Maeve woke in the half dark of dawn. She was cold, but the ground felt surprisingly soft. She opened her eyes just a crack, and then sat bolt upright in shock. It wasn't what she saw, although that was amazing in itself, but it was how she saw it that shook her to the core.

All around her the trees and grass where bathed in a silvery sheen. The silver sheen of darkvision. It had returned. Maeve knew with no uncertainty that if she was to look, the face of Sune would be on her back again. She wasn't sure if she should laugh, cry or curse.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, and then opened her eyes again, just to make sure she wasn't dreaming. But nothing changed. She looked around, and noticed a pack sitting just a few paces away with an iron flail. Both were perched on a small buckler. Frowning, she crawled over to them, certain that her wobbly legs wouldn't be able to support her if she stood. She flipped open the flap on the pack. Inside was . . . was everything she'd left West Harbor with more than two years earlier. And a pouch of gold. With the exception of the gold, the items inside were exact. Flint, a small dagger, some dried rations, and her old necklace with the symbol of Sune etched on a tiny copper medallion.

She reached up between her breasts, feeling for the symbol of Beshaba; it was gone. And even more shocking was that the ridge of rumpled flesh underneath, the scar from the shard, was gone as well.

If the slightest breeze had been blowing, it would have been enough to knock her over.

Maeve sat motionless, staring blankly at the trees. For a while, she couldn't focus on anything, but eventually, she realized that just at the edge of her vision, the trees disappeared into blackness. The border of Illefarn.

The sound of a jangling harness snapped her back into reality. She wrapped her hand around the grip of the flail and leapt to her feet, spinning around. When she saw the old man and his bedraggled looking pony and cart, she sagged and dropped the flail to the ground. In the half dawn light, he hadn't seen her yet, she supposed, or the poor fool would have been scared out of wits. But then he raised his hand and waved to her in greeting. Her stomach flipped over.

Once she stepped forward, it was all over. There was surely no one on the Sword Coast and far beyond that wouldn't know her face. She was infamous. However, there was no where else to go, and Maeve had no idea where she was. She didn't have a choice.

Taking a breath, she pulled her shoulders back and took the few steps out on to the road.

"Strange place for a rest lass," the man said before she could speak. "Not safe to rest so close to the shadows, or so they say at the temple anyway."

"I . . . ," she started, but couldn't finish. What in the hells could she say?

A puzzled expression crossed the man's face. "Are you lost? You look lost."

"That doesn't even begin to cover it," she sighed.

"Well," he replied. "I can remedy that. I'm on my way to the Shadowgate Inn, you're welcome to come along. I'm sure we can get you all straightened out."

"Thank you," she said, reaching down to grab her pack. "But don't you know who I am?"

"Should I?" he asked, quizzically.

Steeling herself for his reaction, she said softly, "I'm Maeve. Maeve of Sune."

"Lovely name, but doesn't ring a bell. Should it?"

"I would think it might," she said. "With the King of Shadows, and the war and all."

"The war?" he asked. "Begging your pardon, but there's been no war with the King of Shadows. The shadows have been there. . . well, forever. Ever since Illefarn fell they say, back in the days before any one else lived on the coast. Lass, that was long before even Neverwinter was around, and somehow, I don't think you're quite so old. Even elves don't live so long."

"What do you mean?" she asked, incredulous. "The shadows have only reclaimed Illefarn . . . less than a year ago."

"I don't mean to be rude lass, but did you hit your head? Must be nappin' by the shadows, giving you these strange thoughts if you didn't."

Maeve just stared at him. He raised an eyebrow at her, frowned, and then patted the cart behind him.

"Come on lass, hop on," he said soothingly. "I think we need to get you out of here." Woodenly, Maeve obeyed, sliding herself on to the burlap sacks of grain piled in the little cart.

"Name's Woelden by the way, and don't you worry lass, " the man said. "We'll get you all sorted out."

Woelden walked in silence for a moment, then began to whistle. It was tuneless, but strangely comforting. The cart bounced and shuddered on the rough road, but Maeve didn't mind. It reminded her of riding in carts from the fields back in West Harbor when she was a child.

She let her mind wander. She remembered everything; the horrors she'd committed, the war and how the world was different than it had ever been before. But yet, this man spoke differently. Perhaps he was addled. She'd find out soon enough, once they arrived at this inn he'd spoke of. Strange again that someone would build and name an inn the Shadowgate, so soon after what had happened. Maybe the whole world had gone mad since she was gone. Or perhaps she was crazy herself.

What was strangest of all was that despite how she could remember all she'd done, it was like watching a play, more than a memory. She just couldn't fathom how all of this had happened, how she'd done all this. There was a memory of anger, violence. Blood. So much blood.

Bile rose in her throat, and she choked it back.

What in the hells had she done?

Her eyes burned, and her vision went blurry. Fumbling in her pack, she grabbed the amulet of Sune and slipped it over her head. Grasping the amulet tightly, she closed her eyes, and prayed without words. Nothing happened. She sighed and dropped her hand to her side, just as the cart came to a lurching halt.

"Here we are," Woelden said. "Just head on in and talk to Sal, just tell him I sent you. He'll get you a nice room. I think you're in need of some good rest." Maeve slipped down from the cart, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand hastily.

"Thanks for the ride, and the help Woelden," she said softly, not trusting her voice.

"Always happy to help a pretty lass in distress," he replied with a smile. She turned to walk away, but his voice to stopped her.

"Wait," he said. "Maeve . . . of Sune?" he asked. Again her stomach flipped over.

"Yes," she whispered.

Woelden grinned and blushed. "You might want to leave that Sune part off for the time being," he said. "Don't want to get yourself bothered until you've had some rest. You Sunites do have a reputation you know." Maeve opened her mouth, but then clamped it shut again. She nearly grinned, but then thought better of it. She nodded, and turned to the door.

The Shadowgate Inn. The rough hewn wooden door looked surprisingly old and worn. She pulled the door open and the hinges and planks creaked with age. Inside, it was dark, as inns and taverns tended to be, but not so dark that her darkvision took over. A fire cracked in a well blackened fireplace. A man stood behind the worn bar, polishing the wood, his head bent down so she couldn't see his face. Maeve took a few steps inside and let the door close behind her. At the sound of the door closing, the man looked up. It was Sal, Duncan's Sal, her Sal, former owner of the Phoenix Tail Inn. And unless she was completely out of her mind, surely long dead.

I am mad, she thought. This settles it.

"Welcome!" he said, setting his rag down on the bar. "What can I get for you?"

"I . . . I'm looking for a room," she stuttered, crossing to the bar in only a few steps. "Woelden said you could help me."

"That I can," Sal said, grinning broadly. "Always have room at the Shadowgate for lovely ladies. Don't see too many out here, so close to the line. I'm sure Woelden told you, but I'm Sal, formerly of Neverwinter, and this here's my place." He reached under the bar and set a key down on the bar. "Room 4, nicest room in the house," he smiled. "Want anything before you head up?"

"No," Maeve said softly, swallowing hard. "But can I ask you a question, before I go?"

"Anything," he said as he handed her the key.

"Do you know me? I mean, do I look familiar to you?" she asked.

"Can't say that you do, and it'd be hard to forget you, with all that orange hair and all," Sal replied. "But I can tell you, I'll remember you from now on. Although, it'd be good to know your name." He winked.

"Maeve," she said. "Maeve of . . . just Maeve."

"Well, Just Maeve," he chuckled, reaching out his hand. "It's a pleasure." She took his hand and he kissed it. Feeling suddenly lightheaded, Maeve turned away.

"Could you have a bath brought up, in a few hours?" she asked quietly.

"Absolutely," Sal said. "I'll have the girls bring it up around mid-day. You look like you could use a few hours rest first. Don't want you to fall asleep in the water."

Maeve forced a smile. She walked to the stairs slowly, but her pace quickened once she was out of his sight. Once she reached the door, she fumbled with the key in the lock and managed to get inside and throw the bolt. She found the chamber pot just in time to be loudly and painfully sick.

Once she'd stopped heaving her insides out, she stumbled to the bed. Curling herself into a tiny ball, she wept at the horror of what she'd done until she feel into a deep, and thankfully dreamless, sleep.


	11. That's What You Tell All Your Lovers

_Chapter 11: I Bet That's What You Tell All Your Lovers._

" _. . . I will take the sword and the shard from you, as well as . . . other things . . . and you are free to enter the world of the living."_

The voice of the King of Shadows echoed in her head as she woke. Groggily, Maeve sat up, trying to blink enough times to make her dry eyes focus. By the shaft of sunlight streaming across the room, she judged it to be nearing sunset. She'd slept through the day entirely.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. In the middle of the room, a simple wooden tub sat, the water still steaming. They'd brought up the bath, like she'd asked, but apparently, she'd slept right through it. In one graceful move, she flung her robes off over her head and sunk into the warm water. She dunked her head under the water and tried not to think. If she thought about anything too hard, she might just stay down and conveniently forget to breathe.

" _. . . How much poison has been leeched into you from all the hatred poured into it by its many previous masters?"_

Poison indeed, she thought, struggling the untangle her hair. She stared at the coppery strands floating in the water. She tried to focus. For a moment, she thought she might cry again, or be sick. It was hard to tell, both prospects were equally nauseating.

She gritted her teeth and tried to put the pieces of the puzzle of her memories together.

Her entire life had been one of choices she didn't make. She'd been born an Aasimar and essentially born a cleric of Sune. She'd been cursed with the shard in her chest and was suddenly an orphan. Daeghun had never seen her as anything more than a burden and reminder of the life he'd lost. Then he threw her to the Sunites, and then again into the world and an adventure she hadn't wanted to have. A mess of strange people followed her, for reasons that weren't hers, and she was thrust into the role of a leader. They wanted her to be a hero.

She'd chosen Bishop on her own, but that was small consolation.

It wasn't until the King of Shadows gave her a choice that she'd gotten to make a decision of her own. And the part of her that understood Bishop, that part that hated all the damned orders, chose evil, since those that claimed to be good had never offered her a choice.

Was it so wrong that when offered a choice, she took the side of the first creature to ever offer one to her? Yes, she'd done horror in shadow's name, and left death in her wake . . . but who could blame her for making a mistake when it was the first choice she'd ever been given? Was it a mistake to want to go her own way?

And now . . . the King of Shadows was good to his word. He'd done just as he'd promised. He'd taken the shard, and the memory of her part in it from people's minds. He'd given her a chance at a life of her own. No one had ever offered her that before.

What kind of evil would give her a chance at a new life, one of her own choosing? No evil at all, she thought.

To the hells with guilt over what she'd done. It wasn't even the past anymore, not in anyone's mind but her own. The only other soul, besides the King of Shadows, who might remember was Bishop, and he was gone.

It was time to live a life of her choosing, although there was some things that couldn't be denied.

Maeve stood up, sloshing water over the side of the tub. She stomped over to the mirror hanging of the wall and flipped her hair over her shoulder, trying to get a look at her back. She was right, the face of Sune was there, spelled out in a wash of freckles.

There was no denying that part of who she was. She was a cleric of Sune, and it was time she learned to deal with it. Of course, Sune wouldn't answer her call as she'd been behaving. Chaos? That was fine, but there was a line and Maeve had crossed it. She had absolutely no idea what in the hells she could possibly do to cross back, but she had a good idea what might point her in the right direction.

" _. . . I do wonder, if you will recognize the woman you are once the shard is gone."_

Recognize indeed, she thought, starting again the long process of untangling her curls and convincing them to cooperate.

"I think I'm seeing myself for the first time," she whispered to herself.

Once she'd managed to rearrange her hair suitably, she slipped her robe back over her head, and pulled the amulet of Sune out where it hung neatly over the swell of her breasts. Through the door, Maeve could hear the sound of voices down in the tavern. Fairly lively for such a grim place as it seemed in the morning.

Forcing a smile, she headed down to the common room to find a suitable prayer to give to Sune.

#

No one noticed her at first. It wasn't until the lamplight brushed across the curls of her hair and glimmered on her amulet that the sound of the voices hushed. A pregnant, near silence floated across the room.

Maeve grinned. There wasn't another woman in the entire place. These poor men weren't going to know what hit them. She scanned the room, noting how each man watched with baited breath as her eyes skipped over them.

Too old, too fat, too young, she thought, her eyes skipping from one face to the next. And then she saw the perfect prayer. He was young, but not less than twenty-five. Long dark hair tied into a tail at the base of his neck, skin tanned from honest work in the sun and a body to match. Green eyes. Like sunlight through summer leaves. The kind of eyes a girl could melt into. Maeve smiled at him, and he blushed crimson as he stumbled to his feet. He pulled out the chair next to him, and gestured to her shyly.

Sinuously, she wove her way towards him, feeling the heated stares from every direction. She floated down into the chair and licked her lips.

"Hello," she purred. "I'm Maeve. And you are?"

"Corvan," he replied, stammering just a bit with excitement. She could see in his eyes that he'd heard of the _love_ of the Sunites, even if he'd never met one before.

"Corvan dear," she said softly. "Would you mind terribly finding me something to drink?"

He nodded quickly, and scurried off the to the bar. Maeve grinned again, baring her teeth. The poor man, he wouldn't be able to walk in the morning, she thought as she pondered the length of his strong legs, and the pleasing shape of his broad shoulders tapered and narrow hips.

She had a feeling he wouldn't mind so much.

#

Maeve had wanted to take him up to her room before she'd even finished the first glass of cider he'd brought for her. But she knew that the anticipation was half the fun. Not to mention that it made the rest of the men in the room green with envy, which would give Corvan bragging rights for months. She couldn't bear to take that particular joy away from him.

Eventually, she'd gotten him into such a state that he'd grabbed her hand under the table and pressed it feverishly against his crotch. He'd looked at her with such a look of pleading and want that she knew she couldn't wait any longer. Not if she wanted a chance at her own pleasure. She did have skills to . . . prolong the moment, but there was a point of no return.

Corvan followed her up the stairs. His breath was ragged, and she swore she could actually feel his eyes burning a hole through her robes. She'd barely managed to close and bolt the door behind them, when he grabbed her roughly and pushed her back against the door. He ground himself against her and kissed her.

Not so passionate as Bishop, but he'll do, she thought.

She pushed him back gently so she could look at him. His eyes were hooded and his lips were flushed. Maeve reached out and ran her finger along his jaw. A fine scruff of stubble made the skin underneath feel all the softer.

She loved it.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she put her finger gently on his lips, silencing him. His tongue flicked out and reverently licked. A shudder of pleasure washed over her.

"Shh," she whispered, once she could speak again. "I don't doubt you've had your share of the local maidens, but tell me truthfully, am I the first gift you've been offered from the bosom of Sune?"

"Yes," he panted.

"Ah, good," she replied. "You never forget the first time. And no matter how many women you've had before, this will be your first time. Trust me." His eyes glittered hungrily.

"Now then," she continued. "Just be patient, and let me do what Sune has taught me. It will be worth your patience." With that, she untangled herself from him and slipped her robe off over her head. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, making sure he got a good look at her birthmark.

"Gods," he murmured. "You're marked!"

"Yes," Maeve said softly, sitting down on the bed. She patted the space beside her. "I'm a child of a half-deva. My blood runs to Sune herself. Now come and sit beside me, and I can show you what that means."


	12. Cleric of Sune

_Chapter 12: Cleric of Sune_

It was surprising how she managed to build a new life out of the ashes and shadow of the old one. The Shadowgate was becoming like home. She'd discovered there was a small farming village called Shadowdale, just down the road, that the inn catered to. The villagers took her into their world like she'd always belonged there. With the exception of a fist fight with a trapper's jealous wife, she'd even managed to behave herself just like a priestess of Sune should.

Maeve still wasn't sure that she understood what Sune really wanted from her. She certainly wasn't feeling love for the people in Shadowdale, not even for Corvan who had quickly become her favorite. But she gave tribute to Sune nonetheless, and it seemed the goddess was listening. Perhaps not so aggressively as Beshaba had been, but the healing spells had returned as well as several others.

She pondered these things as she strolled slowly back towards the inn. She'd spent the evening in the village, and in a way that let her know the people there had decided she was one of them. One of the many duties of a Cleric of Sune was to help those who's marriages and love affairs were failing, for whatever reason. Although Maeve never bothered to offer advice, she did have useful skills.

There was a young couple, Morga and Tiernan, married more than a year, but childless. Tiernan had come to her for help. And she'd given the only help she knew how to give. Prayers to Sune, tokens and gifts given to her icon, and most of all, the type of healing only a Sunite can provide.

She'd joined them in their bed.

It had been years since she'd had that particular pleasure. Since her days back at the temple, learning the ways of pleasure in fact. Maeve was pleased to discovered that she hadn't forgotten anything. And if Morga quickened? Well, Maeve would be infamous again, although for entirely different reasons.

She smiled to herself, relishing the sweet sensation of relaxed muscles and the slight pain of the vigorous prayers she'd offered that night. She walked slowly, coiling a curl of her hair around her finger and enjoying the cooling breeze of the night. They'd wanted her to stay, and share their sleep as well as their pleasure, but that was something she refused to do for anyone. Even Corvan was forced out of her bed before she'd surrender to sleep.

The last to share her bed in the vulnerability of sleep was Bishop and she intended it to stay that way.

The inn appeared around the bend of the road. Lights flickered in the windows, through the drawn drapes. The door was propped open, letting in the cool night air. But it was quiet, abnormally quiet. It wasn't so late, still a few hours until Midnight and usually at this time the inn was bustling with laughter and voices. Not tonight though, it seemed, which was unnerving.

Maeve furrowed her brow. As she came closer, she could hear some voices, talking in hushed tones. It seemed a familiar sound. Almost like the night she'd returned to the Sunken Flagon after defeating Lorne. An expectant, distrustful hush. Was something wrong?

"Ah, crazy," she muttered under her breath. Too many years living in places that didn't want her. It was enough to make anyone paranoid, she thought. Unless that mad woman had returned, thinking she might be able to win in a second round of fists with the cleric. Eh, not likely. Maeve smirked. The woman was likely to be still nursing the bruises and the broken nose she'd earned. With a sigh at her ridiculous wariness, Maeve pushed the door open the rest of the way and walked inside.

The tables were filled, almost completely, as she expected. But still there was that baffling hush to the patrons' voices. Maeve wondered at it for a moment as Corvan appeared at her elbow. He aggressively grabbed her upper arm and whispered in her ear.

"Be careful love," he whispered. "There's a stranger here."

Maeve pulled her arm away and looked at him incredulously. "I was a stranger less than two months ago, and you took to me soon enough. What does it matter?" she asked in a sharp tone, although she kept her voice low.

"Not like this," he hissed. "There's something about this one. Besides, you're a woman, it's different."

"I'm a whore," she replied. Her voice was icy. "That's the difference and you know it."

Corvan growled. "You're not a whore, you're a priestess. I don't need to take a whore."

"But you have. A sacred whore perhaps, but let's not mince words. Honestly, are you trying to lose the nice warm spot I've made for you in my bed?"

"You wouldn't; you're mine," he said.

"I'm not, and I would." Corvan stared at her in disbelief. Favorite or not, she still wasn't willing to take this possessive crap. "Sit down Corvan, before you come to regret it," she snarled.

He looked like he wanted to fight with her, but then thought better of it. He remembered her fight with the trapper's wife. They'd all learned that night that there was more to Maeve of Sune than met the eye. There was hells to pay if you got on her wrong side. The trapper's wife was a big woman, bigger than many of the men were. Maeve squashed her like a bug. Corvan might be just a farmer, but he wasn't stupid. Without another word of protest, he sat down absently wrapping his hand around his half full tankard of ale.

He kept his eyes on Maeve anyway, but she shot him a look that could have frozen the hottest depths of the hells, and he was suddenly very interested in the bottom of his tankard.

Sighing, Maeve crossed to the bar. Sal filled a glass with mead before she could ask and grinned at her.

"Young men, eh?" he said. "Always want to keep everything for themselves."

Maeve took a drink and replied, "You'd think he'd know better."

"No likely. Those young ones think with their balls, and confuse 'em with their hearts. The lad thinks he's in love with you, although I think you know better," Sal said.

"I do," she said softly. "Besides, I've told him often enough that I've used up all my love already."

Sal grunted, but didn't reply. Maeve turned her back to him and leaned against the rail of the bar. She was decidedly curious about this stranger that had Corvan's underclothes in a knot. Must be some hells of a man to get him all crazy. Until now, and with the exception of his occasional outbursts of love poetry, he'd shown himself to be rather even tempered.

This possessiveness was something new however, and she'd have to end that before it got out of hand. Perhaps finding this stranger and offering him a prayer to Sune, and half in Corvan's line of sight would be just the thing.

Maeve inspected the faces. All looked familiar, just the usual crowd, same as every night. She took another sip of her mead, still perusing the room slowly. Her eyes stopped at a corner table. Tucked just outside of the fireplace's light near the windows there was a man sitting at a table. Unlike all the other tables, only one sat there. The man was bent down over his drink, rolling something back and forth between his fingers.

Maeve cocked her head and blinked, forcing her darkvision awake. With a bit of concentration, the room was suddenly bathed in a cool silver light. Back and forth the man's fingers moved, his other hand wrapped tightly around a tankard. Back and forth.

Maeve squinted her eyes. It was an arrow. A simple wooden arrow, with shiny black feathers.

Black feathers.

Maeve's heart skipped several beats. She knew someone who always used arrows with black fletching. Someone who preferred to sit in the darkest spot in the inn. All her earlier thoughts of seducing this stranger disappeared. Despite her normal gregariousness and totally disregard for fear, she was rooted to the spot. She couldn't have been more still if she'd been made of stone. All she could do was stare, mesmerized by the rolling arrow and the man's dexterous fingers.

An eternity passed before he looked up.

It was Bishop.


	13. Cyric's Got Nothing On Me

_Okay, I've totally gone off the deep end. Maeve took me with her. Please heed the M rating. There's some terrible bad weirdness here._

_Chapter 13: Cyric's Got Nothing On Me (In the Crazy Department)_

Maeve closed her eyes. She had to be seeing things, she had to be. But when she opened them again, nothing had changed. It was Bishop and he was looking right at her. She couldn't tear her eyes away. She stared, trying to read his face. Did he recognize her, or was he just looking at the unlikely Sunite Priestess in the backwoods inn? His face was blank and gave her no clues.

No one knew her now. So what were the chances the he would? Sal didn't know her, and she'd known him longer than Bishop. She continued to stare, trying to figure out what that stony look on Bishop's face meant. But there was nothing. It was like he was one of those gods damned puppets. There was a part of Maeve that wanted to run. Run screaming out into the night, and disappear. She'd found a strange kind of contentment here, and even the dull ache of missing _him_ was getting familiar. How dare he walk back into her life to fuck it all up again!

Enraged, she spun around, grabbed a candle from the bar and stalked over to the table where he sat. She slammed the holder down in the middle of the table and just as gracelessly slammed herself into the chair across from him.

He flinched, just a bit.

He stared at the flickering candle for a moment before flicking his eyes back to look at her. The blank look on his face wavered. His eyes glittered, but Maeve had no idea what he was thinking. She'd thought she knew Bishop, and what she saw couldn't be right. He looked frightened.

He clenched his teeth and the muscle in his jaw pulsed. Fright turned to anger and then to resignation. Without breaking eye contact, Bishop leaned forward and blew out the candle.

"You hateful bitch," he muttered. "Am I ever going to be rid of you?"

"Well," Maeve sighed. He did recognize her; That complicated things. "I'm glad to see you too, asshole."

"What the fuck did you do?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" she answered with a question.

"You know what I mean," he growled. "Two months ago, the whole fucking world went mad."

"Oh," she replied. "That."

"I came out of the shadows, and they were all still talking about you. Even though it was more than two years. And then suddenly, no one has any idea who the hells you are. And instead of two years, it's been two thousand fucking years since the shadows came. So I'll ask again," he snarled. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," Maeve sighed. "I'm not _that_ good. The King of Shadows did it, and not at my request."

"Huh," he grunted. "You know, the idiots thought you were still some kind of hero. I got a kick out of that."

"What?" Maeve asked incredulously. "Are you fucked in the head? I destroyed half the Sword Coast."

"Nah, the _Shadow Generals _did that. Apparently they killed you," Bishop snorted. "As if I could have been so lucky."

"Glad to see you haven't changed," she grumbled. "I think."

Bishop stared at her. Glared, actually. As the old cliche said, if looks could kill . . . if they could, she'd not only been dead, but completely wiped out of existence. Her heart felt like a lead weight in her chest. Of all those dreams she'd had, fantasies of seeing him again, she'd never imagined the raw hatred of that stare. He'd never even looked at Casavir that way, as much as he despised him. Even when he'd shot the arrow into Casavir's throat, even then, there was more love in his eyes than there was right now.

"If I thought I could get away with it," he whispered, his voice like black ice. "I would rape and murder you right here. Right now."

Maeve leaned forward. "Give it your best shot, lover boy," she hissed. "I fucking dare you."

Bishop growled and leaned in closer. "Do you now?" he snapped. "I don't think you want to test me, bitch. Cyric's got nothing on me, in the crazy department." She could feel his breath on her skin.

"I believe that," she cooed, moving closer still. "But I could kill you before you even got your tiny little dagger out of your pants." They were almost touching now.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" he whispered. He slid just a hair's-breadth closer. Maeve felt the feverish skin of his forehead touch hers.

"Try me," she spat.

And then, he kissed her.

#

It was dawn before Maeve had another coherent thought. She tried to roll over in the bed, but she couldn't move. There was a weight on her chest, pinning her to the bed. She opened her eyes, intending to push whatever it was off of her. But she stopped cold.

Again, it was Bishop. He was still sleep, his eyes were closed and his face was soft. His head was cradled on her breasts, his face turned up towards her. There was a fresh scratch on his cheek and a smear of dried blood went from it to the corner of his mouth. From her fingernails, if she was remembering correctly.

Then again, she wasn't sure she was willing to trust her memory right now. It was entirely too bizarre. How the hells did this happen? One minute she was ready to claw his eyes out, and the next, she was struggling to tear off his pants as he dragged her up the stairs. They'd not even made it into her room before he was inside of her.

The patrons of the Shadowgate were used to her ways, but there was more than one shocked face last night. But, in all honesty, she was surprised they'd even managed to get out of their line of sight before they'd been rutting like wild, rabid animals.

"Oh fuck," she muttered, rubbing her eyes with the hand that wasn't cemented under Bishop. He stirred at the sound of her voice, grumbling something unintelligible as he opened his eyes. He looked up at her bleary eyed for a moment. Then his whole body went rigid and he leapt away from her, up on to his knees. His hand went to his waist, as if he was trying to grab for his dagger before he realized he was naked.

"Damn it," he cursed. He sat back hard and frowned at her. "Well, here we are again."

"Looks like it," she sighed. "Guess you were right."

"About what?"

"You aren't rid of me yet," she said, trying not to grin.

"So it seems," Bishop groaned. "You're like a disease."

"Sexually transmitted, I'm sure," she replied. The grin got away from her and plastered itself across her face.

Bishop looked like he was trying very hard to be pissed off. But he failed.

"I am, an idiot," he said, smirking.

"You are that," she chuckled. "Among other things."

"What other things?" he asked.

"Oh, there's a whole list," she leered. "Idiot, traitor, thief, murderer. Asshole, bastard, assassin, love of my life. You know, all those things that the world hates."

Bishop's eyes widened for a moment. Then he laughed. "Quite a list you have there."

Just like the night before, they stared at each other. The hate was gone from Bishop's eyes, replaced by that odd, roguish gleam. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to never see his face again; she never wanted to let him go. Maeve saw her feelings reflected in Bishop's eyes too.

Faerun had always been a strange place, she knew. And that was just the thing, just strange enough to always have a place for someone like her and someone like him. Besides, who would the paladins smite if it wasn't for people like them? What would the world be if there was no black to offset the white and no evil to temper good?

"So," she smiled. Her real, true smile was back. Maeve smiled all the way down to her little black heart. "Now what?"

"Don't know," Bishop replied. "I don't make plans."

"How about we start with breakfast?" she asked. "We'll worry about the rest later."

"Alright," he said. His face split into a mischievous grin. "But first, I think I'll start with finding my pants."


	14. Camping in the Hells

_Beware, much violence in this chapter. Visceral, bloody violence with no mercy for the innocent. Please, by every god and his mother (as Lord Nasher would say) do NOT continue if you are squeamish. Don't say I didn't warn you. After you've managed to survive through the chapter, y__ou can see an illustration, by yours truly, from this lovely and pleasant chapter at my DeviantArt page listed in my profile, also titled "Camping in the Hells." Enjoy!_

_Chapter 14: Camping in the Hells_

Maeve finally took Bishop up on his offer; to camp for a year or two.

He was happy out in the wilds. She could see it in his eyes when she made the suggestion. The expression on his face was just like a little boy's, not the cold blooded killer she knew he was. She followed his lead out there at first, and didn't let on how well she knew how to take care of herself. At first anyway. Eventually, she gave him a grin and killed their dinner herself.

Daeghun had been good for something. It was rather useful to have had a ranger for a father, or step-father, or whatever the hells he was, when you decided to go off into the wilderness with one.

It was so . . . normal. Tramping through the underbrush, with Karnwyr at their heels, alternately laughing and stalking prey, seemed so natural. It was easy to forget about everything else; the past, the future. All that mattered was today. And Maeve let herself forget. She forgot about betrayal, she forgot about the missing wound on her chest and all the times she'd nearly been worm food. She forgot what it was to be hunted herself and enjoyed thoroughly being the predator instead of the prey. But like Bishop once told her, if you think you're the predator, you're wrong, you're always someone's prey.

It didn't take long before they ran into bandits. Some things never changed. They weren't Luskan, as they might have been before. Since Luskan was inside the borders of Illefarn, there weren't any Luskans at all. Maeve thought perhaps Bishop might use his head when dealing with them, without that long standing hatred. Blackmail and a bit of banditry themselves seemed like an excellent idea to Maeve. But when it came to Bishop's bloodlust, in the end, it didn't matter where they were from. All that mattered was they were in his way.

Bishop put his fingers over his lips, signaling Maeve to be silent. He grinned, and then ran his finger across his neck. There was no mistaking that gesture. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against Maeve's ear as he spoke.

"Do you have offensive spells?" he whispered. She nodded silently.

"Mass contagion and poison," she muttered. "Harm, a few others."

"Hit them with the contagion, I'll do the rest," he whispered, sneering.

Now it wasn't that Maeve was opposed to a little bloodshed. Hells, a lot of bloodshed was fine as far as she was concerned. But there was something about the gleam in Bishop's eyes . . . she vaguely remembered a conversation. Ah, with Malin, that dainty and sickening little half-elf in Port Llast. She'd said something about what Bishop did to Luskan raiding parties, and the little slip of a thing got all green in the face and cringed. At the time, Maeve thought she was a coward with a weak stomach. At moment, she was beginning to feel she might know what Malin was talking about.

Ignoring the icy fingers of the thought clutching at her, she muttered the words of her divine invocation under her breath and watched as the bandits all suddenly looked like they had some bad meat for dinner. One vomited on his boots, and a few fell to their knees, grabbing at their bellies. Before she had a chance to grin at her own handiwork, Bishop leapt into their camp with a roar.

He wasn't using his bow, as he usually would have. He had his longsword in his right hand, and his dagger in his left. He slashed the dagger across the first man's throat, splattering himself in blood. Two more fell to his blades before Maeve even had the sense to pull the long dagger Bishop insisted she learn to fight with and take her first steps toward the carnage.

Bishop screamed some incomprehensible words, but the tone was unmistakable. No mercy, no escape.

Maeve caught sight of a scout trying to inch his way up behind Bishop to backstab him. She leapt forward, surprising agile without the heavy armor she used to wear, and stabbed him first. Bishop slashed at his opponent, the man's innards spilling out onto the ground, and he spun around.

He didn't drop his sword when he saw who it was. He was covered in blood and gore; his face looked like it had been decorated with grizzly war paint. There was rage in his eyes, and something else Maeve couldn't identify. He growled at her.

"I didn't need your help," he panted, his eyes flicking briefly to the blood on Maeve's dagger.

"Better now, than afterward to raise your dead ass," she said, annoyed at his tone.

He growled at her again, deep in his throat like a wild animal. For a moment it looked like he was debating whether or not to add her body to the pile. Maeve stared him down, just like Daeghun had taught her, should she ever encounter a wild thing that might be able to best her. Even a dire bear could be scared off if you showed no fear. Maeve wasn't sure it was a good sign that she was comparing Bishop to a man-eating beast, but the look in his eyes? It certainly wasn't anything she'd ever seen on a man before.

A plaintive whimper caught Bishop's attention. He swung around, and Maeve let out the breath she didn't realize she was holding. She followed him as he stalked over to over of the canvas tents at the edge of the clearing. He flung open the flaps, and reached inside, dragging someone out by the throat.

It was a boy, not more than ten or eleven years old, dirty and terrified. It was hard to say if he was a bandit or a captive of theirs. He looked to be blonde underneath all the dirt, and horrified. There were the tracks of tears in the dirt on his face. He looked up at Bishop with pleading eyes the color of the sky. He made a pathetic sobbing sound, but didn't speak. Before Maeve could even open her mouth to ask what they were going to do with him, Bishop slit his throat. He dropped the body to the ground with a thump and stared blankly into the trees. Maeve opened and closed her mouth, like a fish. She stared at the broad expanse of Bishop's back.

"Well," she started to say as Bishop lurched to his knees. She was on her knees in front of him without thinking. He had his hand over his belly and bright red blood spurted out between his fingers. She pulled his hand away and was sprayed with blood. She pressed her hands against the wound, ignoring Bishop's groan of pain, and whispered the words of a healing spell, feeling the flesh underneath her fingers mend itself. Her fingers glowed with a gold-orange glow. Just as the glow faded, Bishop grabbed her hand and pulled it away. He gritted his teeth.

Then the anger in his eyes faded away and he wrapped his fingers around hers, both coated in his own blood.

"Thanks," he muttered. "That really hurt."

Maeve forced a smile. "Like I said, better now than resurrecting you later. Besides, I haven't tried that one recently. No telling if it'd still work."

"That's comforting," he replied. His grin was back. "So, do you think they've got anything good?" he asked, getting back on to his feet. He held his hand out to her. She took it and let him pull her up. He grabbed her suddenly, and pressed her against him, soaking her robes in blood. His and the bandits equally.

"They'd better, after all that," she replied. She wanted to make a snide comment about berserkers, but before she could, Bishop kissed her and ground his hips against hers. The thought fled.

"Oh come on," he murmured against her lips. "You know you liked it as much as I did." He kissed her again. There was something rather exhilarating about fighting, she'd admit to that. She was all about a bit of death, when it was beneficial to her, as this was sure to be. Bishop knocked her feet out from underneath her and rolled her back on to the ground. He was aroused by the carnage, that much was certain. She knew that about him already, and the blood wicking up from the dirt into her robes did add a bit of rather interesting kink to the whole situation. She closed her eyes as Bishop kissed her neck.

The face of the boy appeared behind her eyelids, pleading for his life. He'd had blue eyes. Like Casavir. She shuddered.

Bishop took it as a quiver of pleasure and continued with a chuckle. Who was she to deny him? Besides, she'd killed that useless paladin twice, why get all misty about it now?

#

Liquor. That was the one thing missing from life in the wilderness, in Bishop's opinion any way. As fond as she was of a good drunk, it really hadn't seemed like that much of an imposition. But when they'd discovered that the bandit had been smugglers, and of good Thayan whiskey, well, she wasn't one to complain.

Bishop was rather fun when he was drunk and in a good mood. Or at least he always had been before, so Maeve didn't say anything when he managed to down a whole bottle himself. Besides, trying to tell Bishop what to do was like trying to train a cat. Totally pointless and just asking for a scratched face.

He passed out some time before midnight, snoring like an overworked pack mule, sprawled out on his back and taking up the entire bedroll inside the tent. There was no point in trying to move him out of the way; he was pretty snappy when she messed with him in his sleep. Instead, Maeve just stoked the campfire and laid down in the warmth. She was feeling pleasantly drunk herself, so it didn't take long before she was asleep.

It felt like she'd just closed her eyes, when she heard a twig break. She'd gotten rather good at waking herself at the slightest noise. She opened one eye just a crack, not moving, just like Bishop taught her too. Didn't want the predator to know there was a chance of becoming prey.

It was early dawn. The fire had died down to just a few smoldering embers, and just a faint haze of smoke. Through the twisting tendrils of smoke, she saw Bishop stopped like a startled deer, looking back at her with bleary eyes. He had a pack slung over his left shoulder and his bow over his left. He was leaving.

Maeve didn't move until he finally turned around. As soon as his eyes were turned away, she crept to her feet and pulled her dagger. She side stepped around the fire with tiny, padding steps. She crept up behind Bishop and before he had a chance to react, she grabbed his right arm and twisted it around his back. Flashing in the half light of the rising sun, her dagger slipped around his neck. She pressed the point right under the corner of his jaw. Every muscle in Bishop's body tensed. If he hadn't been so hung over, she had a feeling she'd be on the ground with a blade to her throat instead. As it was, he struggled in vain.

"So no goodbye?" she growled, pushing his arm up higher. "Just going to sneak off without a word?"

Bishop groaned, his muscles relaxing.

"You," he muttered.

"You were expecting maybe Lord Nasher?" she snarled sarcastically.

Bishop snorted. "Not likely, I would have heard him coming."

"Rather stupid to teach me how to do this eh?" she said. Her ears felt hot.

"Maybe," he murmured, his voice suddenly husky. "If I didn't want you to catch me."

She twisted his arm sharply and he winced. "What?" she spat.

"Wouldn't have caught me leaving if I didn't want to be caught," he said.

"You are really starting to piss me off," she said, pressing the point of her dagger tighter against his skin.

"Mmmm," he moaned. "I love it when you're angry. Haven't I told you that before?"

"Are you fucking with me?"

"Not yet," he said with entirely too much mirth in his voice. "Don't rush it."

With a noise of disgust, she pushed him away from her. He stumbled, but didn't lose his footing. He wasn't nearly as hungover as he'd let on. He turned to face her, a smarmy smirk on his face. He winked at her and gave her a toothy grin. She snarled. She could feel the heat of her anger in her face, and a drop of cold sweat trickled down between her breasts. It tickled, but she didn't move, just glared at him.

"It's a gods-damned miracle I haven't killed you yet," she grunted.

"Ha," Bishop laughed. "I dare you."

Recognizing the tone of his voice, she replied, "Don't fucking play games with me."

"You're no fun," he muttered. With a sigh, he grabbed his pack and stomped back to the fire looking for all the world like a child who's favorite pet refused to play with him. Maeve wasn't thrilled about being the dog in question. She leaned against a tree and rubbed her temples, willing the headache that was threatening to go away.

Bishop gracefully sat down on the ground next to fire and rummaged through his pack, pulling out a strip of jerked meat. He put it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. After a moment, he looked up at Maeve and winked, patting the ground next to him. He gestured with his head to the side and grinned around the ribbon of meat. When Maeve didn't move, he spoke.

"Come on," he said. "Get over here." With a frustrated sigh, she dragged her feet back to the camp and flopped down beside him. He patted her knee. "You're cranky today," he commented.

"You think?" she snapped.

"What?" he replied dubiously. "It was just a joke."

Maeve looked at him. The look on his face was surprisingly sincere. He really wasn't leaving; he _was_ just playing. Maeve swallowed a suspiciously painful lump that rose in her throat. She looked at her hands, suddenly unable to look at him. He made a little humming sound and reached out, taking her chin in his hand and tilting her face up to his.

"Really," he asked. "What's the problem?"

"Do you have to ask?" she whispered, not trusting herself to speak normally. The lump in her throat was now accompanied by a strange burning in her eyes.

"Apparently," he muttered, smirking again. "Or I wouldn't have."

She turned her face away and he dropped his hand. Unbelievably, he didn't speak, just waited in silence. Maeve took a deep breath, expecting him to say something obnoxious. But he didn't. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him set the half eaten piece of jerky on to his pack and set both his hands on his knees. He didn't move.

Surprised by his silence, she looked up. He was looking right at her. The sun was just to his right side, lighting one half of his face in pale gold and casting the other in violet shadows. Her breath caught in her throat and before she could stop herself, a tear spilled out and ran down her cheek. Bishop reached out and brushed it away.

"I thought you were leaving," she said finally. "Again."

Bishop opened his mouth, then paused and closed it again, frowning.

"And I don't think I could take it again. I'd rather you were dead, than walking away," she admitted. "I am _not_ happy about that. But I am more tired of fucking lying to myself."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said softly. "Oh shit," he muttered, looking shocked. "I actually mean that."

"Don't fuck with me Bishop," she said, rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes. "I'm so not in the mood for bullshit."

"Believe it or not," he sighed. "I'm serious. I fully intend to be dead first."

"How can I believe that?" she asked.

Bishop shrugged. "Beats me, I don't believe half the crap that comes out of my mouth either. But there it is."

"You know," she said after a few more moments of silence, "Things were actually easier when everyone was trying to kill me."

"How so?" he asked. "I don't miss knowing Luskan was out there pining to have my head on a pike."

"I didn't worry about tomorrow," she explained. "I didn't bother to even plan for breakfast. I expected every day was going to be the last one. So what happened? Eh, didn't matter because I'd be dead."

"And now?" he asked.

"And now," she continued. "Now its entirely too likely that the sun will come up in the morning, and I'm going to have to look at it. And . . . ah, shadow and hells. I sound like a damned teenager."

"Nah," Bishop chuckled. "Just a woman."

She reached out and smacked his arm. "Ass," she cussed.

"Guilty," he replied.

"Is it really so wrong to not want everything to be fucked up all the time?" she asked him. "Is it really too much to want to have somebody around who doesn't think I'm a psychopath?"

"No," he said, stifling a laugh. "That's why I keep _you_ around. Haven't you figured that out yet?"


	15. Some Things Never Change

_Okay, I am sorry for this. I swore I wasn't going to write this. I was expecting there would be some nice abrupt ending soon. Really. I swear to Sune. But Maeve is such a pain, she just wouldn't shut up. So anyway, here's something. Eep._

_Chapter 15: Some Things Never Change_

Maeve rolled over in bed, and discovered she was alone. She startled for a moment, sitting upright and looking around the room trying to remember where she was. A little stream of sunlight filtered through the shuttered window, casting a sleek stream of gold across the floor and up the side of the bed.

Ah yes, she remembered. Home.

At first she wasn't sure she was so keen on how they'd managed to acquire their new home. The previous resident had been a little old hermit, just minding his own business. Bishop had dispatched him without a word and seemingly without a second thought. It was a bit cold-blooded, even for him. But then the snow had started, and Maeve was not unhappy to have a warm hearth and a dry bed. So much for becoming a better person.

But then again, Sune was still feeding her spells. As strange as that was. Maeve wondered if it might be because she finally loved someone.

Shaking her head, she dismissed the thought. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles and blinked a few times. There were new logs in the fire and it was crackling brightly. There was a fine dusting of snow just inside the closed door and Bishop's cloak was missing from the hook nearby as was his bow. But his longsword leaned against the wall, and his pack as well.

Maeve smiled. Must be out looking for breakfast. She stood and wandered over to the fire. The old man's kettle was swung out over the flames, steam merrily rising from the spout. She pulled a mug down from the hearth, and reached up, grabbing a few wild mint leaves that were hanging in a dried bundle on a hook above it. She crumbled them into her cup and filled it with some of the steaming water. She padded over to the rough hewn table in the middle of the room, cupping her hands around the mug, smelling the sweet, sharp fragrance of the mint wafting up. She sighed contentedly, just as the door flew open bringing in a gust of cold air, a very damp wolf, and a wickedly smiling Bishop carrying a hunk of what looked like venison.

There was blood on his hands and the cuffs of his tunic. A few drops too on his forehead. He grinned at her before closing the door and then walked to the fire himself, spitted the meat on the skewer and put it over the heat. He rubbed his hands together to warm them, ignoring the blood.

Maeve walked over to him and slid her arms around his waist. He settled back against her slightly. She kissed the back of his neck.

"You're cold," she said.

"Nah," he replied. "Just your imagination."

She laughed. "Contrary to your last breath."

"Some things don't change," he chuckled as he turned to face her. He was smiling.

Maeve reached up and wiped the drops of blood off his forehead. "Yeah, well, I never asked you to change."

"I noticed," he said. He leaned down and kissed her. "Besides, you wouldn't know what to do with me if I was suddenly agreeable."

She snuggled up against him, laying her head on his chest. "I'd think you'd done something even you were ashamed of, I'd imagine."

"Ha," Bishop snorted. "I can only imagine what kind of sick shit that would have to be."

"Well," she replied, hiding her grin, "You could start giving to charity and orphans and such."

Bishop gave a mock shudder. "That's disturbing."

Maeve squeezed him tightly before stepping out of his embrace. "Rather," she replied, smirking.

"Anyway," he muttered. "I've got to butcher the rest of the meat before the storm gets worse. Just remember to turn the meat do it doesn't burn." He grinned. "You wouldn't want to piss me off."

Maeve dramatically pressed her arm to her forehead. "Oh no, I cannot risk the displeasure of the mighty and evil ranger, for I would perish."

He reached around and slapped her ass. "Don't you forget it." With a wink, he strutted back outside, Karnwyr at his heels quite obviously hoping for scraps.

Maeve shook her head and went back to the table, taking a sip of her now rather lukewarm tea. She put her elbows up on the table and rested her face in her hands, watching the flames lick over the logs in the fire. The scent of fresh venison was pungent in the air, like coppers and damp leaves. Maeve took a deep breath and sighed.

This was a strange new world. Ever since that morning in the woods, Bishop had tried to restrain his jokes to less painful subjects, but he hadn't changed. Just like he said, some things never did. Maeve realized she was insane for trusting him. But she did, for the moment. He'd given her no reason not to. At least not recently.

But what was going to happen as winter dragged on? Eventually, this little cabin was going to seem rather small indeed. They were a long way from Neverwinter, and nearly in the mountains here. Winter was going to be very long. Already, there was enough snow to reach to the middle of her calves when she ventured outside. And yet, this was only the second snowfall of the season.

She looked up again at the meat on the spit over the fire. Drops of fat were pooling on the surface, dripping down into the fire. Each drop made a sizzle as it fell.

What would happen if the snow got too high for Bishop to go out and get game? There was plenty of grain in the old man's stash, enough to last even the longest winter, but that wasn't going to feed a wolf. Karnwyr wouldn't be content with porridge for long. So what then? Bishop sure as hell wasn't going to sacrifice the dog, or himself.

If winter was long enough, would she be roasting merrily on a spit? Maeve cringed and her stomach lurched.

"I'm being crazy," she muttered, swallowing heavily. She stood up and braced herself as she walked to the fire to turn the meat. She managed to flip it over and a wake of rich meat scent hit her. Usually a rather pleasant smell, but not today. It hit her like a punch in the middle. There was a bitter taste in the back of her mouth.

She managed to get her head out the door before she was sick. Cursing herself, she kicked some snow over the evidence and went back to her tea. She sat down heavily and took a few sips. She was shaking, but the mint settled her stomach. A bit anyway.

She leaned down and set her head against the table. This was starting to get pathetic. For the last week or two, she'd been like a young drunk nearly every morning. Some stupid thing would get her to thinking and the next thing she knew she had to find somewhere discreet to puke so Bishop wouldn't notice. What kind of a paranoid madwoman was she turning in to?

Oh shit, she thought suddenly. She sat up and leaned back in her chair, resting her arm across her belly, letting it slip down until the edge of her hand was against her thighs. She muttered a spell she remembered from back during her days at the Temple of Sune. She looked down and her hand glimmered for a moment with a pale pink light.

"Fuck," she muttered, breathless. "This is so not what I need." She looked up at the ceiling. "Didn't I ask for things _not_ to be fucked up all the time? Why now?" she asked the rafters, or possibly Sune.

Not surprisingly, the rafters and Sune, didn't have anything to say.

"So what do I tell him?" she asked, ignoring the fact that she wasn't going to get any answers.

_This is NOT happening, _she thought. _I should have been able to make sure this didn't happen. How many times did they show us how to prevent this at the temple? How many times did they remind us of the invocations to make sure there weren't unwanted consequences? They used to prattle on about when the time was right, and all that garbage. And then made it a point to make sure we knew there was nothing that could be done to stop it if we made a mistake. Something about how Sune would prevent such actions, and "tie our hands." I'm beginning to think Bishop has the right idea, not mucking about with the gods. Sune has a sick fucking sense of humor. The bitch._

"How do I tell Mr. I-can't-get-tied-down that I've fucked up his world again?" She paused for a moment. "Shadow and gods damned hells!" she nearly shouted, "How do I tell Bishop I'm pregnant?"

Maeve could swear that somewhere, Sune and Beshaba were having a wonderful laugh at her expense.


	16. And Some Things Do

_Chapter 16: And Some Things Do_

Maeve watched Bishop sleep. He'd been outside most of the day again. Luckily, it had been a rather warm day, like would sometimes happen in the winter. Some of the snow had melted, although it still covered everything; it was certainly easier to get around in now.

Which was exactly what Maeve was hoping for. And dreading.

After she'd realized she was pregnant, and after she'd stopped being angry, she was just scared. There was really no telling what Bishop might do, but there was a much a chance that he'd kill her as kiss her. He ran hot and cold. Less so than he had in the past, true, but it was like she was living with two men sometimes. Often he was rakish and sarcastic only veiling sweetness, but at other times he was cold as steel and just as deadly.

There was only one answer. Only one option. It broke her heart, but crying over it didn't change anything. She had to get out of there before he figured it out. She only hoped that he might still be there afterwards.

Maeve had a plan. They were quite a ways from Neverwinter, but not beyond walking distance even if it was winter and she was pregnant. The Temple of Sune would take her in. Especially since they wouldn't know her anymore. And when the time came, she could leave her child there and go back to look for Bishop. Somehow, she'd come up with some reason to explain why she'd been gone.

But now, as she watched him sleep, she wasn't sure she wanted to go through with it. The dying light of the fire cast flickering shadows on his face. His sooty lashed were as long as a child's, curling gently against the angles of his cheeks. A small scar on his upper lip was white against his tanned, wind burned skin. His usual stubble has become a short beard -- to protect him from the cold he said. And behind those closed lids with their faint blue veins, there were a pair of amber eyes that reminded her of sunset.

He was beautiful. When it really came down to it though, it didn't matter. Not anymore. His face could have been as scarred as his back and his soul, but she would love him anyway. Maeve _knew_ Bishop. Despite how mercurial he could be, he had patterns, like the weather, and she'd learned to read them. This time, telling Bishop the truth was like praying for a tornado.

Maeve wasn't exactly the maternal type. Yet there was a little part of her that imagined what it would be like to show Bishop his daughter, and maybe . . . ah useless. There could be no "maybe". That sort of thinking was for foolish children. And her childhood ended a long time ago.

She'd written a note. She knew it wouldn't be enough. It wasn't likely that he was ever going to forgive her for this. There was no other answer, for any of them. And if she couldn't find him after? Then she would go back to the temple and raise his daughter, and have a little part of him still.

She'd also drugged him rather heavily. She knew she wouldn't be able to slip out otherwise. So tonight was dinner, lovemaking and a sleep potion in his wineglass. He wouldn't be waking up until mid-day tomorrow, and by then, she'd be long gone.

Fighting tears, she tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned down to kiss him. He didn't react – not that he could have with that much sleep potion in his system. Maeve gathered her will and stood, slinging her pack over her back and running her fingers over the folded parchment on the table. Denying herself even a last glance over her shoulder, she slipped out the door, into the night.

_Bishop –_

_I know you won't understand. I'm not going to try to explain. After all of my weeping about you leaving me, and now I've gone . . . well, it would be crap to even attempt to explain why. But I can tell you that I am doing it for you._

_I won't promise that I'll be back; you wouldn't believe it anyway. I also know you aren't one for forgiveness, so I won't ask for that either._

_But just as you always say, some things NEVER change. I'm one of those things and so are you. That's why I have to go._

_I hope I'm wrong about one thing. I do hope that you will understand, someday._

_Love,_

_M_

_#_

Maeve shivered miserably. A pine tree and her cloak were not nearly as pleasant as a warm fire and Bishop during a blizzard. But despite the snow flying and the bitter cold, more than anything, Maeve was relieved. Bishop was good, but even Karnwyr couldn't track her through this, if they'd even bothered to look.

She wasn't sure which was worse. Bishop out there tracking her down, or not even caring enough to bother.

She remembered the first time she'd laid eyes on him. It was the night she'd first come to Neverwinter. She blundered into the Sunken Flagon like the hells on two legs, with Khelgar and Neeshka on her heels. She hadn't noticed him at first. But after she'd threatened Duncan and nearly torn Sand a new asshole, her anger had drained away leaving her feeling like a used bar rag. She grabbed an ale and looked for the table with the most shadows to hide in and drown her sorrows. But the table was occupied.

Before she'd even set her mug on the table, Bishop spoke.

"If I wanted a wench, I'd go to the local brothel," he spat at her.

"Be sure to say hello to your mother when you get there," she replied, just as venomously.

It was love at first sight.

It was almost amusing how long she'd tried to deny it. That first trip with him, through Ember and into the mountains to find Shandra . . . Bishop and Casavir had argued the whole way. Especially once Bishop figured out how Casavir felt about her. Which was doubly amusing, since the paladin hadn't figured it out himself yet. At first, Maeve thought she was just another convenient stick to poke Casavir with.

But it was more than that, even then. Bishop told her later. She respected her, even then. She didn't back down, especially from him, which turned him on more than the most compliant lover ever had. She didn't flinch at his moods. She grinned at him and could dish it out as well as she could take it.

He told her once that she was the only person he ever loved. Including himself. And in that, she knew he was telling the truth.

Even with the screaming cold, the memories made Maeve feel warm. Which was a bad sign since it was more likely hypothermia than her foolishness. Tired, and once again feeling like a bar rag, Maeve stumbled to her feet. She could see as well at night as during the day, and it was only a few more hours to the first gate of Neverwinter. Better to walk exhausted than freeze to death stuck to a tree.

She trudged on. Hours wore by and in the fog of exhaustion her memories were more vivid than the cold. Bishop laughing. Bishop killing. It all blended into one vision. One image in her head. A pair of amber eyes, only slight less feral than a wild animal. Amber eyes glimmering in flickering firelight, sunlight, starlight. And the dark, broken, vulnerable soul behind them.

The man behind those eyes, the one she knew so well, was hurting more than she was. No matter how much she wanted to deny it, she knew what she'd done was going to make more scars. These wouldn't be ones that you could see, but they'd be the kind that could change everything. The bloodshed she was causing was inevitable. If Maeve had a bigger heart, she might have wept for those that were going to suffer at Bishop's hands for her betrayal.

Betrayal for a betrayer. He'd done it twice.

She didn't weep for those that would die. She didn't weep for herself, or for the unborn child inside of her. She did weep though. She wept for Bishop as she walked. She wept for what might have been. She stopped dead in her tracks for a moment. She looked up at the first glow of dawn through the overcast sky. Only bright grey today. No beautiful colors, no shimmering rays of sunlight. Just skeletal trees and endless grey. Rather fitting, all things considered.

She moved on, through the steadily shrinking drifts of snow. The snow turned to rain. There were perks to returning to Neverwinter.


	17. Truth

_Chapter 17: Truth . . . _

It was easier to leave her daughter behind than she'd expected. Maeve wondered at the state of her soul as she walked away from Neverwinter with her new gear and her new thinner body. She had not liked being pregnant at all, so she wasn't surprised at her pleasure that it was over. But she had always been told that once it was her child, she'd feel different about children. She didn't. Just another lie unveiled.

Whatever maternal instincts she might have had under normal circumstances dissolved in the cool autumn air and into some totally unrealistic fantasies about Bishop. She'd managed to stop herself from thinking about him while she was at the Temple. Maeve had a strange suspicion that some how the clerics at the temple would _know_ something if she thought about him. Foolishness, she knew. But with the gods, she was learning you could never be too careful.

It was also foolishness, but heading back to the same little cabin in the woods she'd left Bishop sleeping in was her only idea. The chances that he hadn't left? Ha. More likely that he'd become a paladin.

So that's where she was headed, and hoped that the little ranger skills she'd gleaned from Daeghun and from Bishop himself would be enough to keep her from getting lost or eaten. She had gotten rather good at it, but after nearly ten months in a feather bed at the Temple of Sune, she was thinking she may have forgotten more than she remembered.

She glanced up at the sky through the trees. It was pale pink. Like the inside of a seashell or the curves of her daughter's tiny ears. Maeve felt a little twinge of regret, but she pushed it down.

Regrets. She'd lived a lifetime of making things to regret. Even though the rest of the world didn't remember, she did. Lorne, Casavir . . . the King of Shadows. Horrors beyond imagination. And now, little Esmerelle in a cradle, left to be raised by the same Temple that had raised her into such a fine person.

Esmerelle. It was frightfully sentimental of her to name her daughter after her mother. Then again, she had heard her mother was a wonderful woman, and nothing like her wild, unpredictable daughter. Maeve could only hope that somehow, none of her or Bishop's madness would be passed on to their child.

It really was better this way. Despite any earlier delusions, she knew even if she didn't find Bishop, she wouldn't go back. It _was _better this way. For all involved. Maeve took a deep breath and pushed the thoughts away. That was the past now. And the future? Who could say?

The cabin was just over the next rise. Everything looked quiet and familiar. The tree, just to the south of the path, she'd made love to Bishop there. Maeve sighed. Her feet crunched through the fallen leaves as she trudged up the hill. Staring at her feet seemed like an excellent way to try to ignore the way it felt like her heart might burst out of her chest at any minute. She came to the top of the hill, glanced up at the clearing, and fell to her knees. She stared like a madwoman. It was far worse than she thought it would be.

The cabin was gone. All that was left was a charred ruin. Maeve was suddenly unable to move, or think with the exception of one horrible thought.

_What have I done?_

Once she'd regained her senses, Maeve inspected the ruin of the cabin. There was nothing left. Just a few blackened timbers and ashes. She shouldn't have been so shocked. And honestly, the ruin of a cabin was better than finding carnage she supposed. No doubt, she might be able to use a trail of corpses to track him.

She shuddered. Exactly why did she think finding him again was a good idea?

Maybe she was stupid. That was a distinct possibility. Then again, she knew that she'd keep looking as long as it took. She knew there wasn't anything she wouldn't do, anyone she wouldn't kill, any place she wouldn't go to be with Bishop again. Stupid and completely out of her mind. It was official.

Maeve spent the few next weeks walking in circles.

She'd find something that looked like a trail, or a footprint, her heart would beat wildly and then she'd end up back where she started. She felt like she was trapped in a maze, like in Ammon Jerro's haven, back before . . . well, before everything.

It was starting to get colder, and the days shorter. Before long, it would be too cold and she'd be forced to find somewhere to spend the winter. Or forced back to Neverwinter. Or of course, she could always bury herself in the snow and die. It was always an option. Paranoia was beginning to creep into her thoughts.

"Is he out here, just leading me in circles, waiting to strike?" she said to herself.

Eventually, all those long days of walking and failing caught up with her. Ranger skills or not, Aasimar endurance or not, she was exhausted. She managed to find a cave nestled between some boulders at the bottom of a cliff. It seemed safe enough. She managed to drag herself inside, wasted a spell on starting a fire, and fell asleep.

She dreamt of a hot meal, a hot bath, and even more deliciously hot sex. The man had no face, at least not at first, which was just as well in her current state of mind. But her conscience, such as it was, liked to toy with her in her sleep. The man was on top of her. She closed her eyes and opened them. It was Lorne Starling, when he was young, snarling and panting above her. Then he was Cormick and then Bevil. She closed her eyes. Opened them. Casavir, with icy blue, tear filled eyes, professing love. And then blood, so much blood from an arrow in his neck.

Maeve startled awake, and hoped for a moment that reality would somehow be more pleasant than her dream had been. She tried to sit up and felt the cold press of a blade against her throat. She tried to breathe, but it felt like her lungs had collapsed. She gasped. She tried to speak and only managed to make a sickly croak.

"So, still dreaming about the _paladin_ eh? I thought I'd managed to fuck his memory out of you. But then again, I was wrong about a lot of things when it came to you," Bishop spat, and pushed down harder on the blade. Not quite hard enough to cut, but terribly close.

Maeve didn't have to look up to know it was him. She'd recognize that voice anywhere. She wanted to say something, but the dagger on her neck kept her silent.

"Do you have any idea how long I've been following you? And leading you in circles?" he chuckled coldly. "I heard you talking to yourself. You'd just about figured it out too."

"I'm sorry," Maeve managed to whisper.

Bishop growled, deep in his throat. Maeve could feel all his muscles tense. She could almost hear his thoughts and she knew her life hung by a thread. Moments ticked by, one heartbeat at a time. With a sudden flurry of movement, the dagger clattered across the stone floor of the cave and Bishop leapt to his feet. He pulled an arrow, nocked it and pulled back on the string in one fluid move.

"Since you can't seem to stop thinking about your _Casavir_," Bishop spat, "Perhaps you'd like to die like he did."

Maeve managed to sit up, her hand instinctively across her throat. She looked up at him, swallowed.

"Only that first time," she finally managed. "The second time I took off his head."

A war broke out on Bishop's face. She knew him. He struggled to keep his snarl firmly in place. He closed his eyes and slowly lowered his bow. The arrow fell and bounced off his boot.

"Gods damn it," he muttered. "I hate you."

"Can we skip this part? I know how it goes," Maeve replied.

Bishop snorted. "No, not this time. I have questions, and I want the fucking truth."

"No," Maeve said, looking down at the floor. "No you don't."

"Why don't you let me decide what I want, eh?" he snarled. "You don't know me as well as you think."

"Probably not," she admitted.

"So tell me," he asked, crouching down on to his haunches. "Why did you leave? After all those _lies_ about wanting me to say, you drug me and disappear into the night. Do you have any idea what the fuck that did to me?"

"They weren't lies," Maeve said. "I couldn't lie to you, I never could."

"Fine then, don't start now."

Maeve sighed. "You aren't going to like this."

"I'm sure I won't; I don't like anything right now," he said.

"All right," she said. She took another deep breath. She could feel her face getting hot.

"So?" he said impatiently.

"Her name is Esmerelle," Maeve managed to spit out.

"Your mother?"

"No, _your _daughter," she replied. And without a word, and with uncharacteristic gracelessness, Bishop fell back on his ass on to the floor with a thump.

"My WHAT?" Bishop snapped.

"You heard me," Maeve spat. "Your daughter. Esmerelle. Who has your eyes, and my freckles. Who I left back at the Temple of Sune so we couldn't fuck her up like we are."

For the first time since she met him, Maeve saw Bishop at a loss for words. He sat like a stone on his behind, his legs skewed and his face a blank sheet of white. He wasn't so much looking at her but through her. Maeve thought that if she listened close enough, she'd be able to hear the sound of his heart beating in his chest. That was, if it was beating as feverishly hard as her own.

Silence hung in the air like bitter smoke.

After what seemed like eternity, Bishop leaned forward, drew his legs up underneath him and buried his face in his hands. Maeve didn't move. She was beyond exhausted both in her body and in her soul. She was too tired to say anything. If there were going to be any more words between them, Bishop would have to speak first.

She laid back down, pulling her cloak up over her shoulders and cradled her head on the crook of her arm. Unenthusiastically, she poked at her tiny fire with a twig, watching the bark crackled and blacken. Sighing, she tossed the twig into the flames and closed her eyes. Exhaustion had almost claimed her back to sleep when Bishop finally spoke.

"I understand," he hissed, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "What else could you have done?"

Maeve opened her eyes again and the propped herself up on her elbow. Bishop was looking at her now, and his amber eyes were bright. If it had been anyone else, she would have thought bright with tears. But Bishop and tears did not seem likely.

"I think," he continued, "If it our roles had been reversed, I just would have killed you. And what's worse, I think I'd have done the same thing if you told me. Seems its my only plan."

"Killing?" Maeve asked softly.

"It's what I know," he replied. He was silent again for a moment. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Maeve could have sworn that his sooty eyelashes were damp.

"Do you know really why I hated Luskan? And why I still do, even though I know that the Luskan I knew never existed in this world?" Bishop asked finally.

"Hm?" Maeve hummed, not willing to say anything more.

"My parents, they were from Luskan. They'd fled to Neverwinter's farmlands, and to Red Fallow's watch. They were cowards with no stomach for Luskan. I don't blame them for leaving. But I do blame them for everything else," he explained. He wiped his forearm across his eyes abruptly and continued. "Every few years, on the edges of the swamp, Luskan would raid, looking for slaves and soldiers. You were lucky that West Harbor was too deep in the swamp for them to bother with."

Maeve bit back a sarcastic comment about the kind of luck she'd had. Now wasn't the time for that. Bishop had never her told her, well, anything before. And with her luck, if she opened her mouth, he'd stop.

"When I was nine," he resumed his tale, not noticing Maeve's inner battle. "They came for the second time in my lifetime. I was old enough to remember the last time. And young enough to be scared too senseless on my own to decide to hide in the swamp with the other children my age. They took the older children first. Old enough to be no trouble, young enough to be molded." He sighed. "If my parents hadn't been the cowards they were, maybe they would have sent me into the swamp, or hid me under the floorboards. It's possible the Luskans would have killed them for their trouble, but I might have been safe. As it was, they practically paraded me in front of them. For that trouble, the Luskan's raped my mother, and left my father alive to watch. And then, without resistance, they took me and molded me into the murderer that I am."

Maeve blinked.

"When I burned Red Fallow's Watch to the ground, I can only hope my parents were still there. And I hope they suffered, half as much as they made me suffer." Bishop's voice trailed off. "So I do understand, " he continued in a whisper. "You aren't a coward."

"I don't know what to say," Maeve blurted out. Bishop met her eyes. There was no more bright glitter. His eyes were as dull as stones.

"Just don't pity me," Bishop replied.

"I don't," she said softly. She crept to her feet, dragging her cloak along the stone floor like a child dragging her favorite blanket. Without speaking, she sat down behind Bishop and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. Obediently, he laid down and she draped the cloak over the both of them and wrapped her arm around his waist. He settled back against her and took a deep, shaky breath.

"I won't pity you," Maeve whispered against the back of his neck. "But I will love you just a little more, if that's okay with you."

Bishop didn't speak, but laced his fingers through hers where they lay across his belly. Maeve squeezed him tight. Silently, but with horrible passion, Bishop began to cry.


	18. And Consequences

Chapter 18: Consequences

Maeve had a few revelations in the days following.

First; life in a cave wasn't exactly stimulating, and although there was some certain _stimulation_ in spending much of that time tangled around Bishop. She still had entirely too much time to think.

Second; she realized that some clichés are true. It was a stupid notion, getting all sentimental now, but Maeve figured there was a reason some of these things became so well known. Of course, most of these little sayings were foolish at best and at worst? Well, at worst, they lead people to come to pointless conclusions. But still, as much as she hated to admit it, sometimes they were true.

Third; she realized that most people think the worst combination is fire and water. Two opposites, incapable of co-existing. Those people were wrong. Fire and water temper one another. Together they prevent the other from getting out of control. Indeed, the worst combination was fire and fire. At their best, fire and fire are a smoldering passion; a grand desire that poets write about, bards salivate over and young girls dream about. When not at their best, fire and fire become a raging inferno, destroying everything in their path, and eventually, once everything else is destroyed? Then they destroy each other.

Which brought her back to the cliché again, and an undeniable truth: If you play with fire, you get burned.

And Maeve was feeling rather singed around the edges, and somehow she didn't expect things were about to get any better. Bishop swung between sullen, stony silence and passionate, shrieking rage. Once the floodgates were open, once he finally started to speak and to tell the truth, he couldn't stop. Maeve was truly shocked by the sheer level of horror. She _knew_ that Bishop's life had been far from perfect. Her own life hadn't exactly been peaches and roses after all, but she imagined that to get to the disturbing level of fucked up that was Bishop, it would have been pretty bad.

She had no idea.

Maeve wanted Luskan back, just so she could go on a bloody rampage and kill them all. She knew, from personal experience that the Luskans weren't exactly known for their kindness. They had wanted her head on a pike. But the sheer amount of depravity . . . torture, sexual abuse, tests of the most hideous violence. Burning down a village was just the icing on the cake.

Now, he'd settled back into one of his frightening silences. It was, by far, more terrifying than when he raged. When he screamed his throat bloody, brandishing his dagger, threatening to destroy himself and take the rest of Faerun with him . . . at least them Maeve knew what to expect. But this silence, this stillness. . . he didn't move, but sat motionless as a stone. The hilt of his dagger lay loose in the palm of one hand, the blade laying quiet and deadly in the other. His hands were cut from his earlier rampage, and little crusts of dried blood decorated his skin like grizzly paint.

"Bishop?" Maeve managed to whisper, although she wasn't sure he'd be able to hear her over the thunderous sound of her heart thudding against her ribs.

"What?" he snapped, glaring up at her from under his eyebrows.

"I . . . I think," Maeve stuttered, uncharacteristically at a loss of words. "What I mean to say," she continued as she gathered her wits together, "is that we can't stay here forever. So what do we do? I mean, everything has changed now . . . I know we can't just go on like nothing has happened."

"Why can't we?" Bishop grumbled in reply. "Stay here forever?" He paused for a moment and looked up at her.

"What do you mean?" The hair stood up on the back of Maeve's neck.

"We should have died in those ruins," he said emotionlessly. "You know it as much as I do. We should have never sided with the King of Shadows."

"What?" she snorted. "Having a sudden attack of morality? Why now?"

"Not morality," Bishop grunted. "I don't even know what the fuck that is."

"Then what?" she asked.

"Fate," he replied. Maeve stared at him and he matched her glare, still looking up at her from under his eyebrows. The old sardonic expression he use to wear was gone, replaced by something infinitely colder.

"I don't . . . ," Maeve began, but stopped suddenly as Bishop leapt to his feet. His fingers tightened around his dagger fiercely and his had struck out and grabbed her by the collar of her tunic, yanking her to her feet. Maeve felt the hard, sharp point of his dagger pressing against the soft flesh of her belly, right below her ribs.

Maeve's breath caught in her throat.

"Fate," Bishop continued, apparently deciding he now had her _undivided_ attention, "is something you earn. Not some bullshit from a god who could care less about what we do. Well . . . with one very important exception."

"What's that?" Maeve whispered, trying to keep her breaths shallow to avoid the blade.

"I know where I'm going when I die, because, in case you forgot, I've had the pleasure of dying once before. Probably the only useful thing Casavir ever did," he continued. "But you," Bishop grunted, "I'm not sure there's a hell dark enough for you."

"Probably not," Maeve muttered and lied. She wasn't sure what was in store for her, true, but one didn't get blessed with divine invocations when headed for the hells. Well, at least not in her estimation. But now was not the time to argue with him.

"And you earned the hells. Shadow and hells," Bishop spat.

"I suppose I have," Maeve replied. "I did destroy the Sword Coast."

"Not for that," he muttered. "For this," he said, and kissed her. Maeve returned his kiss instinctually. A little voice in her head told her she was mad, loving him even now, with a weapon pressed between them. She imagined that tiny voice was her conscience. But, she hadn't bothered to listen to that little voice before, so why change now? Bishop pulled away and stared for a moment, and then he dropped his eyes, fear creeping into the corners of his expression.

"For loving you?" she whispered.

"For trying to save me, for resurrecting me," he said. "For Esmerelle."

"My mother?"

"Our daughter," Bishop hissed. "She should have never been born. And who knows what horrors she'll inflict on the world, with my blood in her veins."

Maeve tried to pull away in a sudden fit of anger, but Bishop held her too tightly. He thrust the dagger closer and Maeve felt the unmistakable prick of the metal as it pierced her tunic and touched flesh.

"How can you say that?" she said, her face red. "She's done nothing. Your blood didn't make you a monster, Luskan did. You made a choice to be a fiend."

Bishop snorted. "A choice; I've never had a choice in anything I've done. Not even this."

He glared at her, the firelight flickering in his amber eyes. His face was hard; his eyes colder than Cania. His eyelashes flickered, just enough for the motion to distract her. And then his hand moved. Only a handbreath upward, but it was enough to plunge the dagger through her pale flesh. Maeve felt a rush of heat as her blood spilled in a torrent over his hand.

Then cold. As cold as Bishop's eyes. Or as his heart. He let her go and she collapsed to the ground.

The edges of her vision darkened. She tried to muster her energy to heal herself, but it was as if the dagger had not only cut her flesh, but her connection to Sune as well. She stared at Bishop. Her blood was on his hands and splattered on his leathers, down his legs and on to the floor. But there was no pain, only coldness and the sound of Bishop's now frantic panting.

He dropped to his knees, the dagger still clenched in his blood soaked grasp. The cold stone of his expression broke like a dam in a spring flood. Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. He brushed at his eyes, smearing blood across his face.

"It was going to come to this eventually," he muttered, reaching out and cupping her face in his hand. "It was my fate, more than yours. I destroy. I've destroyed everything I ever loved. Why did you think you would be different?"

"For what its worth," Maeve said, her voice hardly audible. "I forgive you."

"Hmpf," Bishop snorted. "Somehow I knew you'd say that." Gently, he leaned down and pressed his lips against her cheek. Maeve felt the softness of his lips and the scratch of his beard, but it was like through a veil of silk, and not against her skin. His skin felt hot as fire, but she knew that was because her skin was like ice. Her own fire was sputtering, and she knew there was no getting out of it.

"For what it's worth," Bishop echoed. "I am sorry."

"I know," she murmured. Her eyes slid closed. She could see the light from the fire through her eyelids for a moment. But it faded quickly and peacefully into shadow.

_

* * *

__His hands still stained in blood, Bishop walked away, although he'd done one last unexpected thing before leaving. Using a vial of Alchemist's Fire and an empowered arrow, he'd collapsed the entrance to the cave and sealed Maeve's cold, still body inside. Using his skinning knife, he carved her name into a nearby tree along with a crude representation of Sune's face. But once the last flake of wood fell to the ground, he turned away and didn't look back._

_There had always been a dark cloud over his head, casting long and fearsome shadows across his life. But until this moment, he knew there would always be moments when the persistent sun would manage to break through the cloud and he'd have sunshine. Maeve had been the brightest ray of light -- and the worst bolt of lightning -- he'd ever known._

_Now the cloud was not just over his head, it filled the entire sky from horizon to horizon, casting a grey-green pallor on everything. There were no more shadows, because to have a shadow there needed to be light. The light was gone now. Whatever joy he'd been able to eek out of his miserable existence before would seem hollow indeed. Ale and tobacco, perhaps a moment of pleasure, but they were never enough, even before. Gold? For what purpose? And whores? Ah, perhaps there were more beautiful women than Maeve, certainly there were. And more attentive and even more skilled in the arts of love? No doubt. But more . . . Even comparable? Never._

_He'd considered for a moment, still standing over Maeve, if he should end his own life. Oblivion seemed as alluring as a siren. Bishop held the dagger to his own throat for a long time, still as a statue. But he couldn't cut. There was no fear, and pain never bothered him. It was instead something else drilled into him, beat into him, by Luskan. Survive, no matter what. Kill everything, and stay alive._

_He hated Luskan. He hated the man they had made him. But he couldn't change who he was. What they'd done to him was too much a part of his soul now. He could cut his throat, but he couldn't cut the blackness out of his heart. So he walked away, alone and silent, his bow slung over his shoulder and blood encrusted dagger back in the sheath on his belt. _

_Like a ghost, Bishop disappeared into the trees._


End file.
